


Children of Winter

by MannixMind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, First Time, Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 45,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MannixMind/pseuds/MannixMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after starting at the House of Black and White Arya is given her first assignment in Westeros, assassinate Ramsay Bolton and his wife. She sets out, determined to prove to Jaqen that she is ready to forget her past and become a faceless man, that she is ready to be No One. But the North remembers; and blood will out. Picks up loosely after S05E04, but pulls from the books and possibly later episodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey All! This is my first story on An Archive of Our Own so I'd really love your feedback!

Arya

 

She had been watching the whores for a week—how they walked, how they sat, how they zeroed in on potential clients. She’d learned the different come hither looks they used, some based on their own particular appeal, some specialized to the man they were trying to entice. Heavens help her she’d even practiced (when she knew she would be undisturbed), making eyes at her reflection as she walked past the pool in the House of Black and White and attempting to lounge suggestively on the old stone benches usually reserved for the dying.

It was not that this was her first mission for the faceless men. Far from it. In the two years she had spent here she’d done more missions for them than she could count. They had taught her to shed her own identity, and then to blend into a crowd, or fade into the night. She’d even worn the faces of other men and walked the streets as another being entirely.

Except, of course that she wasn’t another man. She had begun as a girl – looking even in her own identity like more of a lad than the lady she was supposed to be. But while a girl had begun the training at the House of Black and White, a woman now worked to do the bidding of the many-faced god. And while women could assume the face of a man, and for a time pass through this world displaying his visage, no man, Faceless or otherwise, would be capable of donning _this_ particular disguise.

She shifted uncomfortably, internally cursing the creator of the corset and hoping that however he had died had been painful and prolonged. She glanced down at her new (and perpetually infuriating) breasts hoping to god that it was the angle that made it seem as if they were spilling completely out of her bodice. For someone who’d spent the last two years learning to control every aspect of her body this recent trick of puberty’s felt like a personal betrayal. It also made No One’s mind stray towards a past that was no longer hers, towards a girl’s mother, sister, and aunt, all of whom had been renowned for their feminine charm. A girl had thought once that she would be spared from the burden of worldly beauty, that she would forever be “Arya Underfoot” scrawny, ruddy faced, and androgynous, but most importantly utterly without note in the minds of men. But No One should not think of such things, because they were the thoughts of a girl, and they had no place in No One’s mind. She was No One in the body of a well formed woman, and she would take the face of the lovers of men where other Faceless Men could not.

She leaned back, arching her back as she’d seen the others do in the process, and saw the man turn and come towards her. She resists the urge to brush the silvery blond curl that fell in front of her face away and instead gave the man her best attempt at a look of lustful anticipation. Ridiculous. Prostitute or not who could lust after a sixty year old obese slaver from Mereen? No One could, because the kind-faced man had told her to. Focus.

He leered at her, a mixture of hunger and fury on his blotchy face. Then he looked over his shoulder, to where Jaqen stood tending bar wearing the face of a middle-aged half-Darthraki by-blow. “This one. She’s a bit to busty to pass for the real kaleesi bitch, but I’m not fussy.”

With that he yanked No One up by her silvery grey locks and pressed her against his sweaty fleshy body. “Come with me you dragon-fucking bitch. I’m going to show you how to serve the Sons of the Harpy as you should, on your knees begging for mercy.”

No one relaxed her jaw, working against a girl’s instincts to clench her jaw and stare back defiantly into the face of this stinking vile man. Instead she adopted what she hoped was a submissive-yet sultry expression and allowed herself to be pushed down a dingy corridor, further into the bowls of the brothel. The man passed by a number of open rooms, stopping at last in front of a door that was different from the rest, painted a glossy black. He shoved it open, revealing a dimly lit room that was different than the rooms No One had watched the whores be taken to. Her eyes widened in surprise momentarily, taking in the unusual furnishings which would look more at home in Joffery’s torture chambers in King’s Landing than in a Braavosi whore house. The Man noticed her surprise and smiled menacingly his eyes shining with deranged anger.

“I suppose so far posing as the Targaryen slut has worked well for you? Plenty of sell-swords and rejects from Westeros wanting to worship you like the inbred whore queen you resemble? Not tonight, my false Valeryian Whore. Tonight I will make you pay just a sliver of the recompense owed to me by that purple-eyed witch, but I imagine the price will be grueling enough to make you wish you’d never heard of Daenerys Targaryen.”

Clutching her by the hair again the man dragged her into the room slamming the door behind him and shoving her painfully down onto her knees and fumbling at the brays which were shielded by his expansive paunch. Not waiting to see what indecencies he had in mind, and more than ready to kill him orders or no, No One sprang into action, launching up and twisting behind the man before he knew what happened. In one fluid motion she leapt onto his back and pulled him into the carotid hold she’d been taught. He staggered shocked, and underneath her arm she could feel the pulse in his neck beating wildly. He dropped to his knees, one arm braced against the ground with the other arm reaching behind him, yanking at her hair in a pitiful attempt to extract her from her position locked around his neck like a vise.

Idiot. She thought. If he only fell on his back he’d have a good chance of crushing her so badly that she’d release his neck in shock. But this man was no fighter. His arm gave way and he collapsed onto the ground, his head smacking against the ground with a sickening crack.

“Valar Morghulis” she whispered, waiting to extract her arm until she was sure the pulse in his neck had stopped for good.

Once she was assured that he was actually dead she stood and made her way silently out of the brothel, walking in the opposite direction from the House of Black and White to insure she wasn’t being followed. She was just about to turn back in the direction of home when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

“The man thinks the girl looks remarkably like Arya of the House of Stark on this lovely evening.”

She whirled around, seeing Jaqen leaning against the wall of the alley peering at her questioningly in the moonlight.

“The girl thinks the man has had too much to drink, as the girl quite clearly looks like a faux-Valeryian strumpet, not a child from Westeros.”

“Tsk. Tsk. Two years in the service of the many faced god and the girl does not know that there is more to appearance than the face a man shows to the world. Does the girl think that being able to change faces is all it takes to be Faceless?”

“No.” she ground out between gritted teeth.

“There it is again! The man sees Arya of the House of Stark in the set of the girl’s jaw. How interesting.”

“What do you want from me Jaqen? I did the assignment, and I did it well. I don’t know what you from me. I don’t see how this is different from any other assignment I’ve worked.”

In a flash he was in front of her again, his face only inches from her own.

“The man thinks…” he purred his voice so low it was almost hard to make out. “The man thinks that the girl cannot play a woman without wondering what Arya of the House of Stark would do.”

She glared at him, willing a flush not to rise in her cheeks. “That’s absurd. I am No One, and No One could be a man, or a woman, a boy child or a girl child. No One is anyone.”

He stared down at her, then swooped in and kissed her passionately, his arms winding around her waist and pressing her against him. Before she had time to react it was over and he was standing feet away from her, composed as ever, peering at her face curiously.

She fixed him with a furious stare, pulling her face into a mask of indifference as swiftly as she could. His teeth flashed white in the moonlight. Evidently, it hadn’t been swift enough.

“You lie. I see you, Arya House of Stark. And if I see you, they will see you too, and you will not live on as No One but will die as a daughter of Winterfell, regardless of the face you wear when you are killed.”

“I will try harder.” She said straightening and trying to keep her face as neutral as possible.

“The man thinks it will not be enough. But the man is overruled. The brothers said one more successful assignment and the girl would go. The man from Mereen is dead, the girl has passed.”

“Go?” She peered at him curiously, “Go where?”

“For the girl’s final test.”

She stared at him trying not to let triumph show on her face. After two years she was finally about to become a faceless man. Still Jaqen’s face – so infrequently expressive – darkened in a way that was just barely perceptible at her eagerness. She was confused, Jaqen did not fear death, for himself or for others. It must be truly gruesome if he was apprehensive…

“For the girl’s final test she will return to Westeros.”

The excitement in her chest built, though she felt guilty for it. No One should not be excited, No One should not care if the target was on Arya Stark’s list. Still No One listened eagerly.

“The girl will go back to the North. And the girl will give the lives of Ramsay of the House of Bolton and his wife to the many-faced God. And when the girl is done she will be a Faceless Woman and will join the order in truth.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

Jon Snow

 

He moved through the room cautiously, slowly feeling his way across the furniture and trying to will his eyes into making out more than shapes in the near complete darkness. This process would take a lot less time if he just lit a lamp but he didn’t want to draw any more attention to his night time exodus than he had to. He was the Lord Commander, and he could respond to an official summons if he damn well pleased, but he’d just as soon not hear Allister Thorne’s opinion on it. He and the First Ranger had come to something of a grudging peace in the two years since he was appointed Lord Commander. While Jon would like to think this was because of his superb leadership, he knew it was due, more than anything, to necessity.

Stannis Baratheon had stayed at the wall for six months after the Battle of Castle Black. True to his intentions, he’d given the Wildlings a choice – join him or die. He had been ready to carry out his threat, and kill the Wildlings who declined his offer. What he hadn’t been ready for was the possibility that the Wildlings would take their deaths into their own hands. The night before Stannis’ threat expired 1,237 Wildlings took their own lives. To this day Jon wasn’t sure if they’d meant to raise again in death or if they had simply meant to escape the death by fire that the Red Woman was sure to subject them to. Either way, Jon had awoken to the screams of Wildlings and Westerosi voices alike, as the wights attacked in the night.

The onslaught cost them dearly, but it convinced Stannis to take Jon seriously in his refusal to leave the wall. He’d left off his insistence that Jon leave the Night’s Watch and in the eighteen months since he’d left he had corresponded with Jon only to inquire about the needs of the Watch, encounters with more of the wights, and any sign of the White Walkers. In his letters Stannis always kept Jon appraised of the situation in the North, which he supposed was his punishment for his refusal to join Stannis as the warden of the north as a legitimized son of Ned Stark. His summaries, which told of the atrocious acts of the Boltons always made Jon’s blood boil and threw him into a temper. But the letter that had come four months ago had nearly killed him. Stannis had only penned five sentences on the subject but the brief message had been enough to rob him of sleep every night since then.

_A week past we captured a bannerman of Bolton’s. Before he was executed for his treason, the man informed me that Ramsay Bolton has taken a wife. The Bolton’s claim she is a daughter of Ned Stark. He reports she is fair and well built, with dark hair. He tells me that Ramsay treats her poorly, though less so of late as she is with child._

Arya had been a child when he’d last seen her but it had been five years since then. Was it possible that she could now be described as fair and well built? She would be nearing seven and ten now. It was impossible to mistake Sansa for a brunette, and enough people in the North knew the Stark children that Ramsay could hardly pass an imposter off as the heir to Winterfell for long. But god, Arya pregnant. And by Ramsay Bolton. It had been enough to make him physically ill, as nothing since the news of his father’s execution had. Seven help him he’d even managed the news of Robb’s death better.

And so since that day he’d poured his attention into finding a way into the Bolton’s stronghold at the Dreadfort. Stannis had chased them from Winterfell a year hence, but he was having a hard time taking the fort. Winter had descended on the North, and food stuffs were scarce. Stannis had never been one to inspire loyalty in his men, and was holding his army together with lectures on duty, threats, and the occasional sacrifice to the Lord of Light courtesy of the Lady Melisandre. Still, men slipped away in the night in droves, and eventually Stannis had been forced to withdraw to Winterfell to gather men and supplies. As such, an uneasy state of truce had fallen over the North, and the Night’s Watch had been able to begin recruiting again, albeit with little result.

Still Jon had sent a Raven to the Boltons, asking for an audience with the Warden of the North, though he found himself grinding his teeth with frustration the entire time he was drafting the missive.   To his shock, Roose Bolton had accepted, and invited him to plead his case for more men in person at the Dreadfort. He had not yet left the Wall as Lord Commander except for a handful of missions on the other side of the wall and a few trips to Moletown. He’d told Sam he was going, and had chosen two loyal brothers to accompany him. Still, he knew there was a decent chance he was walking into a trap, and that the Boltons would kill him the moment he arrived, and so he preferred to leave the conversations about the stupidity of his decision until after he was gone. If he came back, it wouldn’t matter because he would have survived and that would be the end of it. If he didn’t come back… well then if it undermined his legacy so be it, he’d be dead anyway.

He finished stuffing things into his sack, feeling self-consciously like a thief in the night and bucked his sword Longclaw around his waist. He made his way to the door groping in the darkness and opened it with barely a sound. He stepped out into the corridor and nearly tripped as the floor beneath his foot shifted and groaned. Instinctively he drew his sword, thinking that a wight had once again made its way into Castle Black. At the sound of the sword he saw to pale orbs pop out of the darkness a yard away. Ghost was there, though he hadn’t bothered to charge the moving figure in the dark.

“Wait! Its me Lord Commander! I’m sorry Sir!” The young steward’s voice rang out, cracking in its nervousness.

“Damn it Olly, you scared me half to death. Why in the name of the Seven are you sleeping out here?” He’d forgotten that his Steward had taken to falling asleep near his quarters instead of sleeping in the shared rooms downstairs. He’d meant to find out why, even asked the boy about it a number of times, but each time his clever steward had managed to avoid the question. He’d thought something suspicious might be going on, and had meant to sit him down in earnest, but it had slipped his mind when Bolton’s response came in. Now he cursed himself for not simply ordering the boy to stay in the dormitories.

“Where are you going?” Olly asked, ignoring his question. The boy was eager but impertinent as ever. Still, Jon liked him well. He hadn’t neglected to tell the lad he was leaving on accident. He was embarrassed to say it, but he’d avoided telling him, knowing that he’d beg to go with him. Jon couldn’t allow his young steward to walk into danger with him no matter how much the boy would insist that he wanted to come along. Still, under the circumstances Jon figured Olly at least deserved to know where he was headed.

“I’m going on a recruitment mission, to meet the Warden of the North. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Jon said in an undertone, striding down the corridor as he spoke. Undeterred Olly followed in his wake, with Ghost not far behind.

He heard the boy suck in a breath at his pronouncement, but he could almost see him nod in the darkness. “Right you are sir. Give me one second let me grab my cloak and I’ll be straight down.”

“Olly, I can’t take you with me it’s not safe.”

“If it’s not safe sir, then why are you going?” They’d reached the bottom of the stairs and the light from the dying fire in the big hearth lit up the boy’s face, the flickering light exaggerating the lines of concerned etched there.

He sighed. He trusted Olly beyond any of the other men of the Watch save Sam, and he knew he owed him a real explanation. Still he hesitated, feeling almost as if saying his mission out loud would in some way make it more real.

“Sir,” Olly said, his voice cautious but determined. “I know what the Boltons are capable of. I know what they’ve done I’ve heard of the flayings… sir if you don’t feel right sending someone else, if you need someone to volunteer to go request more men, I can go sir. You needn’t trouble yourself. There’s no sense in you puttin’ yourself in danger an’ someone else can go and do the same thing.”

In spite of himself Jon smiled. Brave lad. Though he was no more than four and ten, he’d take a fleet of Olly’s over any men Bolton had to offer. The boy was too good for the likes of the Watch. Jon knew Olly trusted him completely, and had frequently felt undeserving of his faith, though never more than now.

“I appreciate that brother truly I do, but I must go myself. If you promise not to say, I’ll tell you why.” Olly nodded, his eyes fixed on Jon’s face, solemn with the responsibility of keeping the Lord Commander’s secrets.

“Bolton’s heir, Ramsay, you’ll have heard what they say about him? Aye, that’s what I thought. Well Ramsay is rumored to have married one of the Stark daughters. My sisters. They’ve both been rumored to be dead these past few years, Arya for nigh on half a decade now. But still. I must know. You understand, don’t you lad?”

Olly nodded his eyes wide.

“Sam knows, and the mission is official business nothing out of order. Still, I suppose you’ll hear grumblings about me taking unnecessary risks. Pay them no heed, it’ll take more than a few muttered criticisms to do me in. I’ll be back in less than a fortnight. Take care of yourself.”

With that he turned and strode towards the door. Not to his surprise, he was only a few feet out the door when he heard it burst open for a second time.

“Lord Commander, Wait!”

Oblivious to the cold Olly trotted through the snow to catch up with him.

“I understand why you must go sir, but still if I could go with—“

“No. Like I said it’s too dangerous. I could not live with myself if harm came to you on my account. You’ll stay here and—“

“I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Jon was nonplused at this unsure of what the boy could be about.

“Tell you why I won’t sleep in the dorms. Just say you’ll take me with you if you respect my reasons to choose it, danger an’ all, over staying here without you around.”

Jon nodded, his blood going cold as dark suspicions began to swim in his mind.

“Well you know that there was a good deal of turn over with the men about six months ago? With some of our men leaving to rebuild the Eastwatch, and us taking on the new men sent up from King’s Landing by the Sparrows?”

Jon nodded. For the first time since the death of Robert Baratheon the Watch had actually begun to get men from the capital, thanks to the religious zealots who had taken over for the Head Septor. Activities which had once been commonplace in Kings landing, whoring, gambling, even drinking, were now enough to land men with a choice between maiming and the wall. Jon was uncomfortable with the extremism, but happy for the manpower. Still, with the White Walkers coming, it was not enough, so his trip to the Bolton’s could still be justified.

“Well there’s a group of them see, who’ve taken something of a liking to me. Say I have the lashes an’ skin of a lass. I told them to piss off, but they cornered me one night. I think… I think they were trying to bugger me sir.”

Jon stiffened, seeing red.

“Anyway, I figured it’d be better if I just slept on the floor outside your room for a time, you know until I grew, or maybe until I started sprouting whiskers. But if you leave sir, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay. I don’t mean any disrespect sir, but I cannot stay here just waiting for an attack. I’m just not sure I can take it.”

Jon nodded. As much as he hated to bring Olly along, he believed the boy, and his reasons were fair enough. Jon felt guilty for not paying closer attention to the new men and the potential threat they posed, but he didn’t base his decision to let the boy come along off that. Though he was being targeted for his youth, Olly’s understanding and of the situation was that of a man, not a child. If he wanted to risk the trip with Jon rather than the indecent advances of the men from Kings Landing then Jon would respect that. Though may the Mother protect the men if and when Jon got back to the Wall.

“Very well. But your to do what I say when I say it no questions asked. Now grab your bow and your cloak and meet me in the stables as quick as you can.”

The two other men Jon had picked to go with him were already in the sables saddling the horses for the ride.

“We’ll be needing one more as well. The spotted Gelding I think, next to Bjorn.”

Bjorn, a huge charcoal colored destrier sired by Greatjon Umber’s acclaimed war horse, stood saddled and ready for Jon. Like his sword, he had inherited Bjorn from Lord Commander Mormont and could scarcely come near the creature without thinking of the Old Bear. He pushed the thought of his Commander and mentor aside though, and through his pack across the horse’s haunches just as Olly ran into the stables, his cheeks bright pink from the cold. In minutes they were mounted, leading the horses quietly out into the keep. One of the horses shifted nervously and Jon turned to see Ghost, silent as ever standing behind the small party.

Jon rolled his eyes exasperated.

“I told you to stay!” he said. The direwolf merely cocked his giant head at him, then continued to pad along behind them.

Ever since Grey Wolf had been killed in the ambush on Robb at the Red Wedding Jon had been loath to take Ghost into situations where he knew there was a possibility of treachery. Foolish though it may be, he found comfort in knowing that even if he died in some scheme, his wolf would live on.

Ghost was having none of it this night though. After stopping three times to tell the wolf to go back Jon finally gave up; squaring his shoulders into the oncoming wind and pressing forward down the Great North Road, wondering what the bloody hell the point was to being an authority figure if no one he cared about ever did as he said.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Arya

 

No One was cold. It was the only identifiable thing she felt stepping off the ship and on to Westerosi soil again for the first time in two years. She had expected to feel more emotions returning to the land that had once been the home of Arya of the House of Stark. No one had landed in Karhold, the port town and stronghold of the Karstarks. No one knew that they were bannermen to Ned Stark, and that they had marched with Robb Stark when he gathered his men and declared himself King of the North. No One remembered hearing that Lord Karstark and both his sons had died in Robb Stark’s rebellion.

Still as No One looked over the port town, with each of its thatched roofs covered in a thick layer of snow, she felt nothing. Lords died and were born, and still the smallfolk went about their daily lives. Maybe that was what Jaqen wanted her to internalize? Ambivalence about Westeros? Well if that’s what he wanted to see from her when she returned, No One could deliver.

Besides, barring a few things Karhold, which had escaped the fighting, really didn’t look all that different than it did when No One had been there before. No One told herself that it didn’t matter that more than one of the roofs had caved in, having fallen into disrepair after its owner had disappeared, probably killed in one battle or another. No One told herself that the people had always been this quiet, going about their business with no joy in the air and guarded looks on their faces. And as she passed through the gates of the town, No One told herself that it didn’t make any real difference that the Flayed Man Banner now hung from the gates of the town next to the Karstark’s sun of winter signet, rather than the Stark banner that had accompanied it for the last 700 years.

It would take eight days traversing across the frozen countryside of the North before she would come in sight of the Dreadfort. It was hard going, harder than she’d anticipated because of the annoying challenge of passing unnoticed through snow. The only way to do it without leading a trail for everyone to see would be to take the roads, where her footprints would blend in with the prints of other travelers. But while the roads decreased the chances of her trail being noticed and followed, it increased the chances of her being set upon by others and being unnecessarily waylaid. Still, it would be easier for her to switch faces after an encounter with travelers than it would be for her to cover 58 miles worth or her footprints, so the road it was.

She was short, even for a woman, and so she could rarely successfully assume the guise of a fully grown man. Still, that was not to say she could not have gone that route (she had before) or even travelled as a woman of any age, but there was something that always drew her back to these disguises. She supposed a part of her just felt most comfortable, most at home, posing as a young lad as she had before she became No One. Arry had been her first face to wear other than the one she had been born with, and she by now she felt not only like she could slip into the face of a boy and wear it well, but that it could almost be genuine.

This lad had been sandy-haired, with soft green eyes that crinkled in the corners and sharp, high-set cheek bones. It was a good face, one that held the false promise of the future, prophesizing with every contour about the man he would become. That future had never come to pass—the boy had been stabbed in a tavern fight and stumbled into the House of Black and White nine days later, riddled with blood poisoning begging for the quick and painless death of the gift.

Though she passed a few other travelers on the road none of them took much note of the boy, shuffling along in the snow, his head bent against the wind. No One was always ready for things to turn violent in an instant whenever other travelers were about but her state of tense apprehension began to feel more and more unnecessary with each passing person. The North seemed weary of violence.

About an hour before dusk on the third day of her trek No One heard the distant sound of horses coming up from behind. She quickly got out of the road, hiding behind two evergreens which had grown up so close to one another that the space between them was an impenetrable mess of branches. From the sound of the horses clopping hooves it was likely no more than a party of four of five, but still, she thought it best to hide rather than greet the men directly. These days parties of men were trouble more often than not; and while No One did not fear them in the slightest killing five would be messy work and would likely not go unnoticed. For the hundredth time since the beginning of her trip she cursed the snow. It was bad enough she had to hide her footsteps but gods she didn’t even want to think about how much work it would be to hide bloodstains. Plus, even if she did manage, five men going missing was likely to cause something of a stir. The last thing she needed was for the Boltons to be on high alert.

Within ten minutes the first rider came around the bend, seated on an enormous charcoal colored stallion. There were three other men close behind, all on respectable but far less imposing beasts. Every one of them was clad from head to toe in black.

_Night’s Watch_. She thought to herself, watching them through the branches. They didn’t talk much, mumbling in low voices every now and again but otherwise keeping their peace. Her view was so obstructed that she couldn’t make anything out about them, except for that she was pretty sure the one with the bow slung across his back was little more than a boy, with tousled close cropped brown hair.

Somewhere inside the part of her that No One refused to acknowledge, something squeezed in what she thought must be buried sorrow. No One knew that Arya of the House of Stark had once been saved by Yoren, the lead recruiter for the Night’s Watch who had passed her off as a boy recruit and promised to take her to her brother Jon. Yoren had died defending her and Gendry from the Lannisters who had come after them. Something deep inside No One’s mind wondered momentarily if Jon Snow had survived, but she quashed the thought at once. She was No One – and it was no business of hers who had gone to meet the many-faced god and who still had time to wait. Besides, Jon’s location had not been a secret, and the Bolton’s had held the North for nigh on two years now. Even is No One did care, which she didn’t, Jon Snow was likely long dead.

Still she watched the disappearing backs of the wandering crows with interest. Had they taken to doing all recruiting missions in such large groups? Could that have perhaps been a result of what had happened to Yoren? Still, four seemed like a lot for a recruitment mission. Perhaps things in the North were not as subdued as they appeared after all.

She waited about a half an hour after she had lost sight of them before coming out of her hiding place and continuing on. There was little chance they’d look back, but she wanted to be sure they’d be far ahead of her. Though Yoren had been a fair minded sort, and had only taken involuntary recruits who had been sentenced to life at the Wall, No One was not sure that all recruiters were so picky. She had no desire to be forced to kill any crows to avoid taking the black. Not that it would likely get that far; even if no one discovered her tightly bound but still existent breasts, suspicions were bound to rise after she failed to pee standing up. Having passed as a boy before, No One was aware of its practical limitations. In a larger group such things could go unnoticed. But with only four…

Best to wait for them to get well enough ahead.

And so she waited before slowly beginning to trudge through the gathering darkness, her mind empty but for the thoughts of her increasingly cold toes. At the House of Black and White she'd learned to live with discomfort, and to identify the difference between what was simply unpleasant and what could cause her harm.  She was just thinking that she was getting close to the point where the cold was more than innocuous and that it was time for her to find shelter for the night when she saw the light of a fire ahead flickering orange in the dusk.

Damn. All her waiting had been for nothing if the watchmen had simply stopped less than five miles from where they had passed her. She couldn’t just pack down here for the night, not when they were so close that she could see their fire. There were enough of them that it was more than possible that some of them were spread out now, hunting for game in the surrounding woods. No One scanned around, looking for some way to make herself unobtrusive. Her eyes fixed on a marshy area surrounding a streambed about halfway in between her and the campfire. It was dark enough now that they’d not see her approaching if she went through the woods, and though it would be miserable, she knew she’d be able to hide in the tall reeds without being disturbed by any of the men. No hunter, no matter how zealous would push his way through the reeds, to potentially sink into the partly frozen mud to hunt after the small rodents that would be found there. It would be a miserable night, but she’d be safely hidden away.

Slowly No One made her way through the trees that lined the road crouching low to try to stay below the range of sight of any lookouts who might be posted. It was dark enough that they’d have to be looking right at her to see her movements, but her heart was beating fast all the same—not with fear but with anticipation. She didn’t want a fight, but if one came she was more than up to the task.

No need arose though and she made her way into the reeds without any difficulty. The mud stunk with the putrid smell of fishy decomposition but was mostly solid in the freezing temperatures. Still the damp seemed to penetrate her clothing everywhere she touched the ground, and she settled in cold and hungry to stay the night. By the time night truly fell she was so miserably uncomfortable that she considered revealing herself to the watchmen that she’d so carefully avoided simply for the warmth their fire would offer but still she stayed put.

At some point she must have drifted off because sometime around midnight she heard a small crack nearby and her eyes flew open. While the sound had been innocuous enough, No One had a creeping feeling running down her spine. Something was wrong. A few feet away, the reeds shifted, almost imperceptibly, rustling lightly despite the windlessness of the night.

Very slowly, No One slipped a dagger from her belt, and raised herself up into a crouch. She had no doubt that there was someone, or something, in the reeds just a few yards from her. She could almost hear them breathing. But why? Even if they had seen her earlier it couldn’t possibly be worth their time to hunt down one lonesome boy sleeping off the side of the road in the middle of the night…

The reeds shifted again; and No One adjusted her hold on the knife. She wasn’t scared, per se, because she didn’t fear death but she was unnerved. She felt… hunted.

Finally unable to take it any longer, she straightened and unsheathed her sword, slashing away the reeds with a casual flick of her wrist. Whoever it was, No One would meet them face to face rather than wait for them to strike.

Less than four feet from her, the wold loomed, his glossy coat shining in the moonlight. He was bigger than she remembered—bigger than any wolf she’d ever seen—but his pink eyes and flawless white fur were unmistakable. His behavior made it even clearer. Though she’d cut the reeds away mere inches from his snout his teeth weren’t even bared. Instead he just stared at her, head cocked to the side questioningly.

“Ghost.”


	4. Chapter 4

Arya

 

She had to know. As much as she tried to argue against it, No One had lost control. Arya Stark had to know. If Ghost was this far from Castle Black with the Night’s Watch it could mean only one of two things. Either Jon Snow was here, with the party sleeping not 200 yards away, or he was dead, and Ghost had moved on to a new master.

She. Had. To. Know. The thought drummed through her head as she made her way as carefully as possible towards the Night’s Watch’s camp, stepping gingerly into the existing footprints.

When she was 15 feet from the clearing they’d camped in she swung up into a large scots pine. The tree was at least ten yards high, and had thick branches protruding out towards the camp. She pushed her way up through the sturdy branches slowly, willing the tree to remain steady.

She was high enough now that she could see the men in the clearing; three of them laid out on pallets close to the fire. The boy was nowhere to be seen but she paid that little mind. Her eyes were fixed on the biggest man. Like the others he was clad all in black and huddled under layers of cloaks and blankets to ward off the cold; still there was no mistaking the broadness of his shoulders. His head was crowned with a mess of black curls, and though his face was turned away from her she could make out the whiskers of a week-old beard, spread across his jaw. Could this man be Jon?

He’d been well on his way to being a man when she’d last seen him. He’d been sixteen, and she a mere girl of eleven. She had thought him grown then, for he had been by far the most powerfully built of the three teenage boys she had grown up with.  This man was even broader in the shoulders than the brother she remembered, giving him even in sleep an powerful and almost imposing profile.  Jon should be two and twenty now, could this man really be him?

It was too dark and too poor an angle to tell. Despite her better judgement she crept further out onto the branch. The rough bark scratched and tore at her clothing but she paid it no mind, her entire being focused on the task at hand. She was at least ten feet from the trunk now, splayed flat on her stomach inching herself closer in hopes of getting a better view.

She was just about to inch directly over the fire when she heard a creak that came from something other than her tree. All of a sudden warnings went off in her mind. She whipped her head up to see the boy with his bow drawn back, an arrow notched and ready to fly.

There was nothing else to be done. Just as the arrow flew from the bow she dropped, twisting in the air like a cat and landing on her feet.  She landed with a soft thump two feet from the fire and two feet from the man who she’d been straining to see. It appeared she was going to get her closer look after all.

 

Jon

 

The thump was not loud but seemed to shake the ground under his head. He woke with a start to see a short, sandy haired boy standing over him wearing the most peculiar expression on his face. The boy's eyes almost seemed to fill with joyous relief at the sight of him, scanning him up and down as if in disbelief.  Jon found himself momentarily enthralled, and surprisingly untroubled by the appearance of a likely armed stranger in their midst. There was something about that look…

The moment was broken by Olly changing headlong through the fire and tackling the boy round the middle. Somehow, though Olly had at least a few inches and a stone in weight over the lad, the lad ended up on top, extracting himself from Olly’s grasp with a few expertly placed blows and regaining his feet with deceptive smoothness.

By this point Jon had recovered his wits enough to draw his sword, and had it out and at the lad’s neck in a flash.

“I’d stay put if I were you.” He said, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

The boy peered at him and nodded. His eyes were fixed on Jon but showed no trace of fear, instead they seemed to be looking at him with great interest, absorbing every bit about him. It made him feel naked and exposed and he shifted uncomfortably shaking himself.

“What’s your name and what’s your business then.” He said gruffly.

At this Olly piped up. “He was spying on our camp from in the tree above you! I meant to shoot him out of the tree when I saw him creeping towards you but he sensed it before I fired the arrow and threw himself out of the tree! There’s something not right about him.”

The stranger gave Olly a sardonic look but didn’t say anything. Still, he appeared well and truly unafraid.

“I’ll ask you again, boy. What is your name?”

“Arry.”

The boy’s voice pulled at him somehow, feeling at once strange and familiar. The boy looked surprised now, almost as if he’d stunned himself with his own admission.

“And Arry, why is it that you took it upon yourself to climb into a tree and spy on us? What is it you want?”

“I… I… I was looking for food,” he said, his eyes falling for the first time.

“Food?”

“Yes sir. I know its not right and all but you see well, its winter now and I’m not much of a hunter and this journey has been rough on me.”

Jon doubted it. Any boy who was light enough on his feet to fall from a tree after being shot at and land on his feet would likely be a passable hunter at least.

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be fifteen next month sir.”

The boy was starting to look scared now, though Jon had the odd feeling that he was doing it because he knew it was how he was supposed to look. Though worry was etched in the lines of his face his eyes were calm and had come back up to meet Jon’s, almost as if he couldn’t look away.

There was something very strange indeed about this boy.

“What’s your business on the road then?”

“I’m heading towards the Dreadfort sir. My father died three weeks ago and his wife, she never liked me much, I think she was jealous of my mother even though she was dead. Well anyway, she turned me out sir, so I’m going down to those parts because my mother used to have kin there. I’m hoping maybe my aunt will take me in if I can find her. I’m a good worker sir, only I need a place to stay for the winter.”

Jon felt his heart soften at the story though he remained wary. The story was believable enough, but it felt wrong. Like it had been told just for him, somehow, though he knew that was crazy. Still he didn’t trust the lad, something just felt… off. But he didn’t think the boy meant him any harm, though his gaze was disturbing, it didn’t feel ill-willed. He made up his mind. He wanted to know more about the boy, and for now, that was all he needed to know.

“I’m not sure whether I believe that a boy who made it to just shy of his fifteenth name day in these dark times would sneak up on a group of sleeping men, no matter how hungry he was. Still, I’ve no reason to kill you. As I will not let you free to skulk around and tell the next person that you come by all about us, you’ll have to come with us. We’ll take you as far as the Dreadfort and what you do from there’s your own affair. For now, you can share our fire and our food.”

The boy nodded and held Jon’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary before turning to arrange a pallet for himself by the fire. Olly was staring daggers at the boy and gave Jon a look that told him that his Steward was none too pleased with this arrangement. Jon clapped him on the shoulder and told him quietly to get some sleep. He’d take first watch over their strange new guest.

He turned back to see the boy huddled near the fire, wrapped into a tiny ball. He hadn’t realized how small he’d been, from here he looked almost delicate. He was just about to reconsider his earlier reservations when Ghost walked up to the boy, sniffed him thoroughly, and then settled down beside him back to back, curled against the boy’s scrawny spine and utterly off his guard. Most people shook with terror when the direwolf came within ten feet of them, but the boy hadn’t moved and inch, if anything, his shoulders had relaxed.

There was definitely something off about this boy.

“And boy?”

“Yes sir?”

“Try anything funny and I’ll kill you without hesitating.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey All! Thanks for reading I'm glad many of you have seemed to enjoy the story so far! I'll try not to have the the characters do anything too crazy for those of you who've expressed concerns, bu if you think anything else is out of left field please let me know!

Jon

 

The boy proved to be a good travel companion, quick and quiet with his chores, never complaining about the discomfort or monotony of the road. He showed little interest in Olly or Vero and Maddox (the two guardsmen who had accompanied them from the wall) but always seemed ready to listen to any word that Jon said. Still he didn’t press him for conversation, only listened with an intensity that made Jon curious. When Jon wasn’t speaking, which was by far most of the time, the boy gave all his attention to Ghost.

Jon had never seen the direwolf like this. Half the time Arry was dismounted Ghost was there, like a shadow, padding along behind the boy. He was absolutely unafraid of the wolf, feeding him scraps directly, oblivious to the perilously sharp ivory teeth which could easily have taken off his hand along with the morsels it held. Yet with the boy Ghost was gentle, gentler than he was with Jon most times. But the most peculiar part was how obsessed Ghost seemed to be with Arry when he was sitting down. Then the giant wolf would trot over to the lad, and stick his great snout right in the boy’s face and hair, sniffing and licking him obsessively until Jon called him off.

Olly, who was already put off by having to ride with Arry took every opportunity he could to tell Jon that he thought they should be rid the newest addition to their party. Jon agreed, but as the days progressed, the boy continued to give them nothing to complain about, save an odd nagging feeling that there was something odd about him.

Jon felt like he was going crazy. He was sure he’d never seen the boy before, knew that he didn’t recognize his face, and yet there was something so undeniably familiar about him. The way he walked, the movement of his head when his name was called, even the expression of exasperation that would cross his face from time to time all struck him with such a powerful sense of déjà vu that he found himself feeling inexplicably homesick.

“Do you hail from Winterfell Arry?” he found himself asking on the third morning of their trek. Jon reasoned that perhaps there was a chance that he’d been the child of some tenant of his father, whose face may have changed in the past five years but whose mannerisms were the copy of some man he’d known as a boy. He meant to find out more about the lad, and so he’d told Olly to ride with Vero for the day to give the spotted gelding a rest for a bit, and more importantly, to give him the opportunity to get the boy on his own. He hoped it would be worth it, as he knew his Steward was none too pleased with being the one required to double up of the two.

“No Sir. I’m from outside Karhold myself,” Arry said casually. There it was again. It was a perfectly reasonably said answer, with no affection that should give him suspicion, and yet in the boy’s eyes there was something, some strong emotion that had flitted across them at the mention of Winterfell.

“Have… have you been to Winterfell sir?”

The boy’s question came out waveringly.

“Yes.” Jon said gruffly.

“And how did you find it sir?”

“When I was there it was the best place on Earth, though at the time I was too pig headed to appreciate it. But I’ve not been back in some years, not since the Starks fell,” he spoke the words lightly but for some reason they felt like a confession. He glanced over to see the boy’s eyes locked on him, absorbing every word.

“Has it, that is, have you heard anything to suggest, that it’s changed much since then sir?”

Jon sighed. Much as he’d tried to keep thoughts of Winterfell from weighing on his conscience he was capable of reciting every change that had been reported to Castle Black over the last five years.

“Aye well, the Iron Born did little to encourage loyalty from the people thereabouts an’ after they… after... well after a time the old Stark tenants wouldn’t work for them or serve them, and so things began to fall into disrepair so far as I hear. Then the Boltons came; and from what I heard they converted one of the barracks on the grounds into a great kennel for Ramsay Boltons hounds, an’ that apparently made the whole keep stink of dog. Then Stannis came and things mostly were put back as they had been, except,” he always had to remember to keep his temper at this point, and could NOT let it show in front of this strange lad, “Except the Lady Melisandre burned the old weirwood in the Godswood. Said it was an offense to the Lord of Light.”

“SHE WHAT?!”

The anger in the boy’s voice startled him. It was the only genuine emotion he’d shown thus far on their journey and it made him, if possible, even more familiar.

“A fan of the Old Gods are you?” Jon asked half bemused, half hoping to finally get an ounce of truth out of Arry.

“More a fan of people not destroying what they have no right to be touching in the first place,” he shot back, his eyes flashing. Jon cocked an eyebrow, what the boy said was akin to treason if you believed that Stannis was King. Maybe the boy had had family who had marched with Robb.  It would make sense, after all the Karstarks had all joined his cause. Perhaps this boy had lost as many loved ones in the Red Wedding as Jon had. Either way Jon had now gleaned that he was a Northmen, and one loyal to the Starks. It was a start, for now.

 

Arya

 

She was in trouble. She was No One no longer, but had become Arya Stark once more, and the disguise she wore was chafing against her nerves with every mile. She was having a hard time not revealing herself to Jon, not going into his arms like she had as a girl and sitting their sobbing in his embrace until all the pain and confusion of the past five years was completely cried out of her system.

What was she thinking bringing up Winterfell? Good God her reaction to the news about the Weirwood, she may have pinned a direwolf to the outside of her cloak. It was like in shedding the veil of anonymity, in rejecting the comfort in nothingness that the Faceless men had given her, she wanted to feel her identity twice as strongly as before- and was willing to open up old wounds simply to feel their sting again and know they exist.

This trip was ripping her apart. And here he was, her brother, maybe her only family in the world, not four feet in front of her and she had to remain silent; an outcast among their party, suspected by everyone and trusted by none. She’d never felt so alone.

And yet like a kicked puppy she kept coming back to Jon, trying to will him into talking when she knew she had no place asking him questions. They already suspected her, she knew, and any excessive questioning would raise a red flag and might just get her killed.

In thinking about the prospect, she realized for the first time in two years that the idea scared her. She didn’t want to die, she was afraid of dying, without telling him the truth. She’d noticed how he’d avoided saying what the Iron Born had done when he recounted the changes at Winterfell. She knew the deaths of Bran and Rickon must hang on him as that had on her, and she so desperately wanted him to know that he was not alone in his suffering.

She’d started falling behind Jon a bit after their exchange about the weirwood and was now between him and the two other horses carrying the three watchmen. Jon was out ahead, by about twenty feet, regal and imposing on Bjorn. Gods he was something to behold.

All of a sudden out of the corner of her eye Arya saw a flick of movement in the trees to his left, accompanied by a faint metallic shimmer. Her heart was in her throat and she was shouting and digging her heels into the gelding side before she had time to stop and think.

“JON! Watch Out!”

Men exploded out of the trees, falling on him just as he pulled his sword from his belt. He dispatched the first one with haste, but the second one was lunging for his exposed side when Arya rode up. Without slowing she reached for the man and dragged him away by the hair, before slitting his throat with Needle. She flung his limp body aside, shoving it towards a man on the ground who was going for her horse. The body of his companion distracted her latest attacker long enough for her to slide from her mount before he could react. Once he spotted her on the ground he lunged at her clumsily, his beetle black eyes gleaming with malice. She parried his blow with ease and then caught him on the side beneath the ribs, his middle parting like butter beneath her glass-sharp blade.

Jon had disposed of another man  with a hard blow to the neck, covering his face and left side with a spray of deep red blood.  Seeing this, the last companion seemed to give the attack up as a bad job, and he had begun to flea when an arrow from Olly, who had ridden up seconds after Arya, caught him in the back.

“Right,” Jon said his voice a bit gruff and his eyes flaring with the adrenaline of battle. “Olly, Vero, you go check out the runner see if he’s got enough life left in him to tell us who sent him. Maddox, see to the Gelding and Bjorn, make sure they took no injuries that we don’t know about. And you. You come with me.”

He said the last words with more menace than Arya had ever heard from him in her life. Wordlessly she obeyed, following him off the road about twenty yards until they came to a clearing in the forest.

“Now Boy,” he said his voice low with threat and the great sword still clenched in his left hand.

“Now you’ll tell me how it is you came to know my given name. And by the Old Gods and the New, you’ll tell me where it is you got my sister’s sword, or I’ll have you begging for mercy before I’m finished with you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Arya

 

The look on Jon’s face was murderous. She had no idea how he’d take the truth, or how the hell they’d explain her transformation to the other men, but at the time had come for her to make a decision.

She still held Needle in her hand. If she were still No One she might have fought him, putting her mission for the House of Black and White and their devotion to secrecy above all else. But she was not No One. She was Arya of the House of Stark, and she cared more about the man in front of her than she could ever care for the Faceless Men. And in this moment, that was all that mattered.

“I will show you, but only if you promise to let me complete what must be done before you step in. Whatever you see, however strange, just wait until it is complete before making a move. I’ll give you the sword, here see?”

Jon nodded. “I’ll not move until you tell me but be quick about it. I’ve no idea what you’re playing at, and I’ve no patience for any more of your beating around the bush.”

“May I turn around? Its less disturb-“

“You may not. You’ll do whatever you bloody well have to do right where I can see you and you’ll do it now.”

Despite her nerves about what was about to happen she felt her jaw clench in annoyance.

“Fine. Have it your way then.”

He’d see soon enough that she was only trying to help.

 

Jon

 

He had no clue what Arry could be about but his curiosity was keeping his fury at bay enough to let the boy do whatever it was he wanted to do. But Jon would be damned if he was going to let him continue to dictate the terms of his interrogation. When he refused to let the boy turn around, the boy fixed him with an exasperated look and came over to him and dropped Needle at his feet. Then he stepped back stopping 12 feet away from him, and fixing Jon with a look that seemed to be asking his compliance with his request not to move one more time. Jon nodded impatiently, more eager than he’d like to admit to find out what the boy was up to. Perhaps he was finally about to figure out what was so odd about the lad.

In a quick flash of movement the boy pulled out his dagger and dragged it across the base of his neck. Jon let out a mangled cry, thinking Arry had just slit his own throat right in front of him. But there was no spray from the carotid artery, no sickening gargle of a man drowning in his own blood. Instead the boy had slipped his small fingers underneath the flap of skin created by the knife slit and way pushing up under his skin, his hands slowing making their way up his neck. His fingers curled their way around his chin, and the lower part of his face began to warp, looking as if giant worms were burrowing under the skin on his cheeks.

Jon felt as if he were going to be sick and staggered backwards to lean against a log. He could see now why the boy had warned him to wait before striking him—part of him wanted to kill the evil looking thing if only to make it stop. Its face was completely unrecognizable now, and to distract himself Jon glanced down, focusing instead on the thing’s neck. Where the skin had been peeled away, there was no exposed raw flesh, but rather a slimmer, lightly tanned throat. Plastered to the back of the person’s neck, Jon could see long mahogany hair, wet and matted but unmistakably thick and healthy in its natural state.

His eyes flitted up to the face. The strong jaw was gone, replaced by the delicate lines of a heart shaped face, accented with a small chin with just a hint of a dimple in it. The hands had worked their way up to the hairline, and the rest of the discarded visage still hung over the rest of the person’s face obstructing it like a veil.  However, as the hands moved Jon caught a glance of a set of plump pink lips, parted slightly so that the lower lip was displayed to its most enticing advantage. What in the name of the Gods was going on?

Suddenly, with a jerk the face and hair of the boy was wrenched free, and deposited on the ground in a gruesome heap. Before him stood a young woman, running her fingers through her matted dark brown hair, her heavy-lidded grey eyes fixed on his own.

“Do you still want to kill me now Jon?”

Her name came out of him like a sigh as he sunk back further against the log in shock.

“Arya.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Arya

 

He sat there staring at her for such a long moment that Arya began to think that maybe she’d imagined him saying her name. It had come out at barely a whisper after all, maybe she’d only imagined what she wanted to hear.

“Do you not—“ her voice wavered with question.

He was on his feet and in the blink of an eye he’d closed the space between them. His hands came to cup her face.

“Shh. Hush now lass. Of course I know you. I’m just surprised is all,” he said pressing a kiss on her forehead. The contact broke something inside both of them and before she knew it his hands had left her face and had pulled her into a warm embrace as she sobbed against his chest. She hadn’t cried in Gods know how long, not since shortly after her father’s death most like.

“Gods Arya how I’ve missed you. You’ve no idea, no clue how its pained me not to know what’d become of you.”

She looked up to see his cheeks slick with tears. Instinctively her hand went up to brush them away, and he leaned into her palm; closing his eyes and exhaling deeply as if he could get five years of solace and comfort from the simple contact. His arms, which remained locked around her torso, hugged her tighter against him.

“Lord Commander! Sir?”

His eyes snapped open in alarm but not before Arya had turned eyes fixed venomously on the intruder. Vero, the black brother who had been sent to check on the man who Olly had shot, stood, his jaw dropped open and his eyes wide, gaping at them. Arya supposed from his perspective they must have seemed to be in something of a lover’s embrace, which was likely not what he had been expecting. Not to mention the fact that her face had changed, but she was still clearly dressed in the clothes of the boy he’d travelled with for the last three days.

Jon straightened and cleared his throat.

“Vero may I introduce you to my Lady Sister, Arya of the House of Stark.”

“How do you do my lady?” He said almost automatically, giving her a slight bow, though he was clearly still dazed by the thought of her.

Arya felt the corner of her mouth quirk in amusement but gave him a nod of acknowledgement back, attempting to keep her face neutral.

“I should like to speak with my sister, Vero, would you mind telling the others—“

“Yessir; only the man Olly shot is dying sir, an’ well, he has quite a bit of information we’re thinking you’d like to know.”

Jon glanced back at her, his eyes still full of strong emotion. Looking at her he sighed, and turned back to his watchman.

“Aye I’ll come now,” then, turning back to Arya he said in a low tone, “Stay here til I get back, please sister?”

She balked at that, surprised.

“I’ll do no such thing. I’m coming with you this instant.”

He gave her a sharp look, clearly not used to having his orders countermanded, but then he sighed again.

“Alright. I suppose it has to happen sometime. Come then, let’s see what Olly thinks of you now.”

 

Now that the secret was out she wished she could undo the bindings around her breasts and have done, but she could tell Vero was close to fainting at the sight of her scooping to pick up the discarded fleshy mask and she decided it would be best to wait a bit before introducing any new surprises.

She walked up behind Jon, wrapping the mask gingerly in her cloak and tucking Needle back into her belt as she went.

The man was where they’d left him, though Olly had flipped him over onto his back and was holding him propped half up on his lap. The poor boy was white as a sheet. Arya imagined he’d never had to be this close to someone whose life he’d taken before. To make matters worse, the man was having a rough time of dying. The snow around them was stained with the man’s blood and he was coughing and sputtering between gasps. Olly’s hands were trembling as he wiped the blood clear of the man’s lips and without thinking, Arya knelt down beside him, taking the rag from his hands.

“I’ll do it, you go clean yourself up now, you’ve done as much as anyone can,” she said in a low, kind, voice.

He stared at her startled before his eyes flew questioning to Jon.

“It’s alright. I’ll explain it all in a bit. First we’ll talk with the man here. You’re free to go help Maddox with the horses if you want, or you can stay here with us, it’s up to you man,” he said nodding gravely at Olly. Arya felt her heart constrict seeing how much he resembled her father in that instant, giving the boy the option of protection and comfort but making him feel so proud and responsible that she knew he’d never take it.

Olly allowed Arya to take his place on the ground, cradling the man’s head on her lap, but then stood brushing himself off before shaking his head and setting his face in a look of determination. “No sir Lord Commander, if it’s all the same to you I’ll stay here to see if his story changes any in the telling. Best we know either way.”

Jon nodded back clasping him on the shoulder briefly in thanks before turning to the man.

“Now sir. Who is it that sent you to ambush me?”

The man, whose face was so white under his beard that he was starting to turn the grey blue color of dead flesh coughed and sputtered, but eventually ground out the words.

“St-stannis Baratheon”

That took Jon by surprise Arya could tell, though his brows only furrowed slightly deeper.

“And do you know why it is that Stannis wanted to have me killed?”

“We…we were to t-take you if we could manage it, kill you if not. He… he di-dn’t want you to be taken by the B-Boltons.”

“Stannis ordered you to kill me to keep the Bolton’s from killing me?”  The skepticism in Jon’s voice was clear.

“Not worried… not worried ab-bout the B-Bolton’s killing you. C-can’t have them c-capture you. W-will tu-turn the tides.” The man said, barely getting the last words out before he broke into a prolonged fit of coughing, blood and phlegm erupting from his mouth.

“Why? Why would them holding me turn any sort of tides? The Night’s Watch would never join in the fighting to save my sorry skin – we’re stretched thin enough as it is, and Stannis Baratheon knows that better than anyone.”

But the man was past the point of answering. He just coughed and sputtered painfully; turning over and nestling farther into Arya’s lap as if to get away from the pain and the cold of the world.

“Jon…” she said in a low comforting tone, looking up into his confused eyes. “Let me help him, he’s told us all he can.”

Surprised to hear her speak, and clearly still not over her presence himself, Jon nodded down at her slowly. Not waiting for any more permission she dipped into her pocket for the small vile. Uncorking it she turned the man's head slightly, pouring the Gift into his thirsting lips.

“Valar Morghulis” she whispered softly, her hand coming back to cradle his face. He let out one last sigh and was still.

She looked up to see Jon and Olly staring at her, both their eyes wide. Had she not been clear enough about what she was about to do?  Jon recovered first, shaking himself in bewilderment. 

“Olly, ride ahead with Maddox; set up camp at the first safe spot you come upon. We’ll be along as soon as we dispose of the bodies. I want you to set up my tent this night as well. My _sister_ will be joining us, and I’ll need a place to speak with her in private.”


	8. Chapter 8

Jon

 

“All I’m saying sir is how can you be sure.”

Vero’s face was locked on his as he said his piece but Jon’s found that his gaze was drifting past the man and locking onto his Steward who was glowering with his eyes fixed on the fire. He was sitting around the camp with his men, while Arya waited in his tent twenty feet away. He itched to go to her to hear about her life these last few years and what on Earth had brought her here but he knew he had to settle things with his men first.  He hoped that Olly would speak his mind soon.  Not knowing how the boy felt about things was making Jon dissatisfied and restless. Olly was one of his closest men, and having something like this hanging between them did not sit well with him. Still, it would have to wait, so he indulgently he turned back to Vero’s question.

“I _know_ her brother. She’s my own flesh and blood, I practically raised her when we were children. I spent the last three days trying to work out why the boy seemed so familiar and now it all makes sense. The way she spoke of Winterfell, the way she moved. I know its her.”

“But what if its another disguise? How do you know this is the real person and not just some other mask?” Vero said, pressing the issue.

“Well, whoever she is we can be sure her true identity is female,” Olly said, speaking for the first time since they’d finished making camp, “I could feel her breasts pressed against my back when we rode. Thought I was going insane, you know? Feeling things when my mind was wondering. Guess it all makes sense now.”

Jon felt a wave of inexplicable anger at this comment but suppressed it. There had been nothing lewd in the boy’s manner, and were it not for the blush that had begun to creep across his face you’d have thought he had merely reported on the state of the weather from his tone.

“Its her.” Jon said again, hoping that he put enough finality in his tone to settle the matter. He straightened, “but in the morning I’ll bring her out and you lads can question her all you like. But for tonight, lets get some rest, aye? It’s been a long and trying day, and we’ve got some decisions to make tomorrow about whether or not we continue on to the Dreadfort. I’ll want to hear what each of you have to say on the matter in the morning when you’ve slept on it a bit. But for now, I’ll bid you goodnight and see to my kinswoman. Steward, a word before you rest?”

Maddox and Vero nodded at Jon, understanding that they’d been dismissed for the evening. Grudgingly, Olly got to his feet, following Jon half way to the tent. Jon stopped there and turned the boy to face him. Olly’s eyes came up, glowering but filled with more concern than anger.

“Do you trust me lad?”

“With my life. You know I do,” Olly ground out.

“Do you not trust my judgement then?”

“May I say truly sir?” Olly said, his face cautious but determined.

“Yes… of course.” Jon said, surprised somewhat to have not gotten as strong an affirmative answer as he had for the first question.

“I trust your judgement in all things… all things save those that concern her sir. I think, I think your love for your family blinds you to danger sir. Is she not the reason we’re risking this trip to the Dreadfort in the first place? An’ now it seems its cost you the love of Stannis, who seemed to love you well when he left us not two years past.”

Jon had to admit the boy had a point. Olly paused for a second, and then glanced up, meeting Jon’s eyes once more, this time with a look that seemed to plead with him to understand.

“I trust _you_ sir. I do not trust her. I’ve no idea what to make of her truly, except that she’s dangerous and she’s more adept than most at deceiving people. I understand that she’s your kin, and that she’s likely been through horrors that I could scarcely imagine. She’s got her reasons for secrecy no doubt, and I do not grudge her that. All I ask is that you be _careful_ Lord Commander, and that you keep your wits about you when it comes to her.”

Jon made a mental note to tell Sam to stop educating the lad. He’d become two smart by half.

“You have my word, son. An’ I thank you for your faith in me. The gods must’ve been smiling upon me the day you agreed to be my Steward, for I could not ask for a better one. Now get some sleep lad. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The boy nodded, his face no longer showing any sign of anger, and made his way back to the fire. Steeling himself, the words of his faithful steward still in his mind, Jon walked the rest of the distance to the tent drew in a deep breath, and walked through the flap.

The sight of her hit him like a punch to the gut.

She had stripped to the waste, and was wearing nothing but a pair of low slung Braavosi breeks. Her hair was wet from a fresh washing and she was scrubbing at the hollow of her neck with a sopping wet strip of cloth, causing rivulets of water to run down in between and along her breasts. Gods her breasts. Where in the seven kingdoms had she come across those? While the rest of her was trim and tight, they were shockingly lush, high and full enough to fit his hands perfectly. They were capped with small deep pink nipples, standing perfect and erect in the cold. He felt his cock throb tightly, pressing against his trousers and felt himself turn scarlet. What in the name of the Gods was wrong with him?

She looked up as he came in unconcerned, and continued her ablutions.

“You Stewart’s right you know,” She said conversationally, reaching back to scrub along her spine, giving him an even better view of her chest, if such a thing was possible.

“What in the— God’s Arya what do you think you’re doing?” He said, coming to himself and spinning around to face the flap of the tent. He could feel the blush burning up his face and hoped she wouldn’t notice the pink that was spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“I should think that would be obvious. You were the one who gave me the water for washing in the first place.”

“I know but Gods, you shouldn’t… I mean show some modesty for the Maid’s sake, sister!”

She just laughed at that making him feel even more foolish than he already did.

“Everyone always said people from Westeros were more prudish but I never realized how much truth there was to it. The whores in Braavos used to say you could get a man from Westeros to finish simply by kneeling and caressing his thigh with your tongue.  They say you needn't even touch his manhood but I never believed them. Is it true then Jon?”

His cock jumped and pleaded with him from inside his breeches and it was all he could do to stop himself from covering it with his hand and pressing it in his need.

“What?” he managed stupidly in response. Clearly his blood was needed elsewhere, and he cursed his manhood once more.

“Oh that’s right I forgot you likely don’t bother with any of that being in the Night’s Watch. Are you sickened by the sight of women’s bodies then? Is that it? I can cover if you’d like but Gods don’t make me put on anything tight. I had to massage my breasts for half an hour after I took the bindings off. I was hoping maybe they’d shrink from being constricted so for over a week, but no such luck.”

“I. Am. Not. Sickened. By. Women’s. Bodies.” He ground out between gritted teeth. He didn’t know why it was important to him that he clarify this particular detail, but it felt necessary for some stupid reason.

“Mmm. Of course you’re not,” she said flatly. “Don’t worry brother I’m decent enough now that even Septa Mordane would be satisfied.”

He turned, to find her drowning in one of his tunics. She’d stripped out of the breeks and laid them over her pack to dry, but the shirt went down almost to her knees. The tunic hung loose around her neck, slipping almost off one of her shoulders and exposing her clavicle invitingly. In spite of himself he found himself cocking his head to the side and raising an eyebrow at her as if they were still children together at Winterfell and she’d told him she’d gotten Sansa’s permission to dirty one of her finer dresses.

At the familiar semi-stern look she beamed at him. “Oh there he is. There’s the brother I’ve missed so much.”

She rushed him then, her arms coming around his neck as she hugged him tight. He returned the hug stiffly at first and she laughed, pulling away from him.

“I stand corrected,” she said, grinning mischievously up at him, then whispered in a low conspiratorial voice, "you’re not as disgusted as you seemed afterall."

It took him a moment to figure out what she was on about but when he did hid face burned scarlet once again. Mother help him she’d felt his erection pressed against her.

“Arya…” he almost growled.

“Don’t worry. I know about these things now. I know men can’t help it. Even the Faceless Men can’t stop themselves and they can control almost everything their bodies do.”

Her words turned the blood in his veins to ice. His little sister shouldn’t know such things about men. What had he thought would come of a girl, left alone in the world before her monthly courses had even come, with no one there to protect her?

“What did they do to you?” he said, his face stony. He didn’t want to hear, but if she could survive the deeds themselves he could survive their telling.

“The faceless men? Nothing I didn’t ask them to.”

He blanched at that, and seeing his face she clarified, “They didn’t take me Jon. Not in that way anyway. They trained me, because I asked to be trained. I’m going to join their ranks.”

She said this last bit proudly, as if becoming a Braavosi assassin was at all an acceptable path for the beloved daughter of Eddard Stark. He knew her enough not to press her on this point though, at least not yet. He didn’t think he could bare it if she stormed off in a fury now as she was like to do if he tried to tell her what to do, so for now he contented himself with finding out more.

“And how is it an apprentice to the Faceless Men found herself back in Westeros? You weren’t sent to kill me were you?”

He said the last bit jokingly, but felt his heart constrict a bit at the thought uttered out loud. What if she had been? Gods would she have taken such an assignment?

She shook her head, eyes locked on him in alarm as if she could see the doubts playing across his face.

“No Jon. I had no idea you were still alive. If I had known maybe… well, it doesn’t matter now anyway. No, I’m here on my final assignment. It’s my last test before I’m admitted to the order and become a faceless man in truth.”

“It is then? And who’s the lucky target?” _Heaven help anyone whose life stands in the way of Arya Stark and her ambitions_ he thought to himself darkly.

“You’ll not tell anyone that I told you?”

He shook his head, somberly.

“It’s a double. My first actually. I’m to kill Ramsey Bolton and his new wife.”

Jon felt his face twist infinitesimally at her words. Perceptive as ever, Arya pounced at his reaction.

“What is it? He’s not dead already is he? That’s not why you’ve come down? He must be, why else would you risk the Dreadfort after what the Boltons did to mother and Robb.”

She looked put out momentarily, and he almost let her go on believing Ramsay dead, but he knew such a solution would be futile.

“No…” he said slowly, his voice low. “No, he’s not dead; he’s in good health from what I hear. It’s his wife… Arya, I’m sorry, they’ve played you awfully.”

She cocked her head at him questioningly. “How so?”

“Arya… the reason we’re on the road, the reason I’m risking the Dreadfort, is because I heard… well I heard that Ramsay Bolton married a Stark sister and I had to know if it was true. I had to know if he had you, which is why I was willing to walk into that hell unarmed to meet him if I had to. But God’s Arya, if they sent you to test you, could it mean that he has Sansa? Is it possible they would ask you to kill your own sister?”

She rose and turned from him, her body stiff. “So that’s why Jaqen was so concerned," she said in a hushed voice, "I should’ve known it would be something like this, the final test.”

Something about her tone, something like resignation, made Jon jump to his feet in alarm and go to her. She tensed when he touched her, momentarily looking like she was going to attack him, but then her expression softened into a confused, almost lost look, and she let him pull her in against his chest. They stood there for a minute, him rocking her slowly, as she nuzzled into his chest, doing nothing but breathing him in deeply.   He thought momentarily that he must stink to high heaven after all this time on the road but she seemed to be drawing comfort from it, and he was loath to let her go. Finally she looked up at him her eyes questioning.

“May I sleep with you tonight?”

He must have made a face of alarm because she gave him a sardonic look.

“Not like that idiot, do I look like a Lannister to you? I mean sleep as in slumber, like we did when we were children. It’s freezing in here this far from the fire and I’ve gotten spoiled cuddling against Ghost these last few nights. Plus my mind… it’s just bloody cold is all!”

He was about to tell her no, inform her pointedly that they were _not_ children anymore as evidenced by their earlier conversation, but something in her face stopped him. He sighed resigned. He strode over to his pallet looking at it. Hardly big enough for himself, sharing the dingy thing with her was going to be a challenge indeed. Resigned, he sat down, shrugged out of his cloak and began to pull off his boots.

“Aye you can. Grab your bed things, we’ll share my pallet. And for the love of the Gods put some pants on.”

She beamed at him again and grabbed her things, coming back over to stand in front of him, clutching her worn blanket to her bosom. He glanced down at her still bare legs arching his brow and she shrugged at him half-apologetically. “I’ve washed all my pants. From what I heard of what you said to the men round the fire it sounded as if we’d keep camp here for the morning tomorrow at least; I figured it’d be a while before I got an opportunity to clean like this again.”

He shook his head exasperatedly. “Right. Well. In you get. And no squirming. If I remember correctly you have the coldest feet south of the wall; and I’ll not have them pressed against me in the middle of the night.  They used to be cold enough to chill a White Walker.”

She giggled, momentarily reminding him of the child he’d known, and then lay down on the far side of the pallet. All trace of childishness vanished in an instant as she stretched out on the pallet, arching her back momentarily like a cat, and then settled in, propping herself up on one elbow and looking up at him expectantly. The collar of his tunic hung low around her neck tauntingly, baring one shoulder, and as he had feared the lay of her body caused the tunic to scrunch up under her hips, pulling it up to reveal a few more tantalizing inches of creamy thigh. How in the name of all that was holy had they mistaken _her_ for a boy?

 _Sick Bastard_. He thought to himself. _She’s your fucking sister. What is wrong with you? Have the years of celibacy really reduced you to this?_

Steeling himself he got into bed beside her and blew out the candle; still laying stiff as a board next to her. She moved in the dark, shifting to lay on her stomach, and moving her head onto his chest. He stiffened momentarily, but then relaxed, his arm coming around her cradling her there. As she began to breathe deeply he settled in even more, feeling more contented than he had in Gods know how long. Just before sleep gripped him Olly’s words came drifting back into his head.

_All I ask is that you be careful Lord Commander, and that you keep your wits about you when it comes to her._

He’d given the boy his word that he would. As he drifted off, he wondered how many more promises he’d break now that Arya Stark was back in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed my first attempt at smutting things up a little bit, lol. Let me know what you think!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been loving hearing from some of you guys! thanks for all the feedback, I appreciate it positive or negative so please keep it up! I hope you like this latest chapter, I'm really excited about where things are headed. Enjoy!

Arya

 

She woke with Jon’s arm around her and his warm chest pressed against her back. She had felt safe at the House of Black and White, but this was by far the most contented she’d felt since she left Winterfell. She snuggled back against him, greedy for more of his heat, wanting to be more enveloped in his warm embrace. Mid-scoot she froze, feeling the press of his erection heavy against the curve of her bottom. The contact sent a shiver down her spine and made a small flurry of feeling go off in her womb. Surprising her still sleep-muddled mind, her body pressed back against it hungrily. Jon let out a soft moan in his sleep, and held her tighter, seeming to flex his whole body and pressing his hardened cock against her buttocks in one motion. She felt a bit breathless, now totally awake, and she could feel a gathering moistness between her legs.

She was being an idiot, she told herself, as she had been last night. _You’ve seen too much of the world to take a cockstand personally_ , she chastened herself mentally. That much was true enough; the last man who’d made his lust for her evident had been ready to torture her for Danerys Targareyn’s sins. Such things meant nothing to men, other than a natural reaction to something they wanted, as a dog would salivate over a cut of meat.

_It meant something to Jon though_ , a small voice inside her said. She’d teased him mercilessly, but she’d known from the minute his eyes locked on her naked body that he had been momentarily seized by lust. It had shaken him visibly, and it was all she could do to stop herself from pressing her bare chest against his turned back, just to see how much more she could fluster him.

_It meant something to him because he sees how wrong it is_ , another voice in her mind answered back. She felt a wave of shame come over her. Gods what was wrong with her? She’d never felt more than fleeting interest over a man in her life, barring a crush of Gendry Waters when she was still a girl, and here she was lusting after her brother.

Gods it was sick—it was wrong. Maybe this was the result of living as No One for so long? Maybe some part of her still didn’t know that she was Arya Stark, and so didn’t care about crossing boundaries Arya Stark should never cross? It was a convenient excuse, but even as she thought it she knew she was lying to herself.

Part of her craved Jon’s attentions _because_ of their past together. That part of her longed to prove to him (and herself) that she was no longer the child he’d known, that she was not Arya Underfoot (though Jon himself had never called her so) but a woman whose interest men would vie to hold. She gloried in the thought momentarily, surprising herself. Up until now, she’d never felt anything but annoyance at men’s increased attention. Why now did it matter to her?

_Because you have an audience, and you want to show off, idiot_ , the voice said disgustedly. _You’re no better than Sansa._

She fumed at herself. There were ways to show Jon that she was a woman without playing Lannisters. She’d just have to take those opportunities when they arose and hope that it would be enough to satisfy this idiotic fancy that had taken hold of her. But for now, she needed to kill something.

 

Jon

 

He woke to find her gone. He felt a moment of panic, but then saw that her pack and Needle were still inside the tent. Assuring himself that she’d never go far without those he pushed himself out of the bed to go find where she’d gone.

He’d slept well with her there, only waking twice, but his reaction to her both times were enough to leave him fuming with himself. Both times he’d woken his cock had been throbbing with need. Nothing but sheer determination had kept him from taking himself in his hand and giving himself relief the second time. While it would have been far from unusual for him to touch himself in bed, he’d explode before he’d do such a thing with his sister sleeping beside him. Even if he left the tent to do it, as he’d thought to do, it would still be wrong, because he would know he was doing it out of lust for her.

He groaned as he felt himself stiffen again thinking about it and pulled on his boots doggedly. He didn’t have time for this now, and he’d be damned if he let his body get the upper hand on him. There were too many people relying on him having his wits about him, for him to deal with the depths of his own depravity now. And with that thought in mind he left the tent, already fuming inwardly.

As he made his way over to the fire he saw two ducks roasting the spit being turned by Maddox as Arya and Olly sat together cleaning what looked like a brace of hares. The boy was talking to her which made him glad, but he felt a pull of jealousy as the steward leaned in to say something and she threw back her head in a laugh, shoving Olly lightly in what he assumed was halfhearted punishment for the impropriety of the joke in question. The boy was being raised on the Wall after all, and he doubted any bit of his humor would be suited for a Lord’s daughter.

Her eyes, still swimming with mirth caught sight of him at that moment and she smiled, causing Olly’s head to turn. There must have been some disapproval still etched on his face because the boy jumped up, greeting him formally.

“Morning milord.”

“Morning steward. You responsible for all this meat lad? You’ll have us fattened up by the time we return to Castle Black.”

The boy blushed. “I can only claim half of it milord. The Lady Arya matched me beast for beast. She’s quite the shot with the bow… though not as good as me,” he said grinning as Arya huffed dramaticall, “Buttt… she’s far better than I could ever even _hope_ to be with a sling.”

“And as I was saying, earlier you’ll never want for rocks so as a weapon…” Arya chimed in, clearly reigniting an earlier argument.

“Aye milady, but the fingerwork…” Olly said giving her a ridiculous lopsided grin, and she giggled again. So that had been the joke.

Jon cleared his throat and Olly remembered himself, scooping up the skinned hares and muttering something about cleaning them further before evacuating his seat. Jon sat down next to him.

“I thought you said you snuck into our camp because you couldn’t hunt.”

She gave a small shrug, “I lied.”

He raised his eyebrows and she continued. “I ran into Ghost in the woods, and I wanted to see if you were here.”

So that had been it. He shook his head, marveling at the danger she’d put herself in to see if he was near but pleased nonetheless.

“Your steward is a good lad,” she said casually.

“Aye, though he doesn’t trust you farther than he can throw you.”

Arya nodded in agreement. “I know, that’s why I like him. He’s not charmed by a pretty face. That’s useful that, good to have someone like that with you.”

“Oh so now you’ve got a pretty face do you sister?” Jon said teasingly. She glared at him in response, and he beamed at her, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a one armed hug.

“I jest lass,” he said smiling at her, “father would be tearing his hair out in a frenzy if he could see you now. I remember how harried he was when Sansa started looking a lady, but with you, his precious and thorny Northern Rose, I don’t think he could stand it.”

She looked up at him her eyes swimming with emotion, and Jon realized it was the most he’d talked about Ned Stark since Ygritte died. It felt good to talk about the man in a happy context, instead of dwelling on his tragic end. It’s what his father would have wanted, he was sure of that.

When the ducks were divvied up between the five of them and the hares were snow-packed for later they settled down as a group around the fire. He gave everyone a few minutes to eat in peace before turning to the matter at hand.

“Given what we heard from the man yesterday, we can hardly go walking into the Dreadfort. I doubt Stannis would have acted so brashly if he didn’t think Bolton would take me the moment I walked into the keep.”

“But why milord? What interest could they possibly have in taking you hostage? They have to know we have nothing to pay for you,” Vero asked. Jon was himself.

“Whatever it is, King Stannis must know as well,” Maddox said, peering at the ground thoughtfully. He was a man of few words, but what he did say tended to be worth taking note of. He’d lost his entire family in the Riverlands during the year after Robert Baratheon was killed and as long as Jon had known him he’d never spoken of it. He only knew about it because of the man’s screaming at night.

“Aye that he must.”

“Whatever it is, t’would be best if we knew as well sir, so as to plan our way home better,” Vero said practically. Jon saw Arya look up at him sharply, and he wondered if she was as put out that the men had voted to return without going to the Dreadfort as he was.

“Is there a village near to the fort? One with a tarvern where we might be able to get news?”

The men looked at her, and she shrugged. “We could go there for news, see what’s being said. If there’s a bounty on your head, or if the Bolton Bastard is wanting to take you alive its likely that his men at arms can be found somewhere discussing it over ale. Its what men do best.”

“Aye, that’s fair enough lass,” Maddox said nodding slowly, “And there is a tavern not far off. In Baldread, the town just a mile or so from the keep. But we’re in no state to go there lass, dressed as crows as we are. They’ll know to be on the lookout for the Lord Commander, an’ no watchman will approach an’ be safe.”

“That’s no problem, I’ve got a brown tunic and green cloak that’ll fit Olly, and I can dress as a woman and use his black cloak. No one will suspect us, and we’ll go unnoticed enough in a tavern travelling as siblings. Nothing could be simpler.”

“No,” Jon said, his voice laced with finality.

“Why?” Arya said her voice holding the promise of a fight.

“Because it’s not safe. I’ll not allow it.”

“I’m sorry brother, perhaps I didn’t make my position clear. I’m going on to the Dreadfort. What you and your men do is your business, but my business lays there. Olly can accompany me to the tavern in Baldread, or he can accompany you back to the Wall. I’ve no issue proceeding alone.”

“Like Hell you will,” he was on his feet glowering down menacingly at her without even thinking about it and she flew up at him, her temper matching his, her stormy grey eyes flashing with fury.

“The days when I needed your protection are long past brother. You weren’t there, and I managed. I can damn well manage now!” Her words cut him like blades but he held fast. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see his men shrinking from their fury clearly troubled at seeing the clashing of such strong tempers unfolding in front of them. The last person who’d challenged Jon half this much had lost his head, and he supposed the sight of someone flying at him in a rage unnerved them.

“You are not a child now Arya, you don’t know what men will do! You don’t know what they’ll do if you come strutting in there, woman that you are!”

She laughed at him mercilessly.

“ _I_ don’t know? You think that I could go traipsing around the burning Riverlands in the wake of the bloody fucking _Mountain_ and not know what rape is? You think my youth spared me? You think because I was eleven years old, and weighed less than six stones that men would have paused before forcing their ways between my legs if I hadn’t killed them? You know nothing Jon Snow!”

The familiar phrase shook him but he held his ground. “I cannot help what’s happened in the past Ayra, Gods know if I could I would. I would give anything, ANYTHING to have been there for you, or for Robb, to die beside you to keep you from the horrors you had to face alone. But we cannot go back. Still I’ll be damned if I let you go in harm’s way again!”

“Harm’s way?” She said her voice raising with her incredulously arched brows. “You still don’t see it do you Jon? You still see me as some precious child, too unskilled and stupid to care or think for herself. I _am_ harm. Things must have a care when they get in _my_ way. I am an assassin trained by the Faceless Men of the House of Black and White and I’ll be damned if I let anyone, family or no, order me about. I am going, and Gods help anyone who tries to stop me!”

“Sir?” the voice reminded Jon that there were others and he rounded on Olly, his eyes flashing with a fury that only his sister could have inspired.

“WHAT?” he said menacingly.

“I’ll go with her sir. If she’s a mind to go anyway… I think sir there’s no stopping her without hurting her, and no hurting her without her killing at least one of us sir, and if it’s all the same to you I’d like to reserve my strength for fighting in Baldread if fighting needs be done.”

Jon glowered down at his steward feeling slightly betrayed. But even so, the fury that had taken over his mind began to evaporate and was being replaced by a new, far more unpleasant feeling. Fear. Unadulterated inescapable fear.

It was like Ygritte all over again. He could thunder and yell, and she’d storm right back at him, and in the end do as she liked and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt more powerless than he had since his time living beyond the wall.

“Alright.” He said his voice so low it could barely be heard.

Arya nodded, and he could see that her eyes too were devoid of the fury that had been there only a moment before. She hugged him hard, seeming to infuse the hug with the apology that neither of them could bare to say out loud. Then she turned from him beckoning to Olly to follow her into the tent. He emerged a few minutes later, dressed in her garments and began to ready the horses. They were only a few miles from Baldread, and they’d be going alone the rest of the way, while Jon and the other watchmen sat here, waiting helplessly like bairns and old men.

Ten minutes later Arya emerged and he felt his heart constrict. She was dressed plainly enough, wearing a charcoal grey skirt and a serviceable hunter green bodice over a starched white blouse. The bodice had been laced tight, revealing her slim waist and causing her bosoms to rise up invitingly out of the top of her neckline. Her long chestnut hair had been pulled half back, and sat curling invitingly on her shoulders over the black cloak that she had donned in replacement of her own. She was perfectly respectably dressed, and utterly breathtaking.

He saw the Vero and Maddox glance at him, clearly anticipating that he would resume their earlier fight in earnest now that it was clear how tempting a target she would make. But Jon had already known, and he knew to resume the quarrel would just prolong this torture. So instead he stood glowering, his jaw locked in frustration.

They finished readying the horses silently and Olly mounted up to leave. Arya made as if she was about to get on the chestnut mare she had borrowed from Maddox but then stopped and turned back to Jon. She seemed to hesitate for half a second and then she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. In spite of himself his arms came around her crushing her against him so tightly that he heard the breath come out of her in a slight gasp.

She stood on her tip toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek whispering in a low voice, “I’ll come back Jon, I promise.”

He nodded, his insides too tied in knots for him to risk speaking and kissed her on the top of the head, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of her. He released her and she mounted her horse, without another backwards glance, spurning the animal forward expertly.

As she and Olly headed away, casting elongated shadows in the waning afternoon light, he prayed to every god he’d ever heard of that she was better at keeping her word than he was.


	10. Chapter 10

Olly

 

He’d never appreciated how dangerous women were until he met the Lord Commander’s sister. She’d stunned the men in Baldread, riding past them her back straight her eyes set on the tavern ahead.

They’d dismounted and she’d paid the stable master for his troubles, flashing him a stunning smile that left the poor man gaping after them. Olly found himself narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously. Arya Stark didn’t flirt unintentionally. She’d come with a plan of action, and he was just going to have to follow along.

“Brother dearest, a word?” She said to him sweetly, stopping just outside the door of the tavern, seeming shockingly like a bubbly carefree flirt of a woman rather than the cold hardened killer he knew her to be.

“Yes sister of mine?” He responded, trying to hide his irritation.

She giggled prettily and leaned cutely on his shoulder, standing on her tip toes to whisper in his ears as if they were playful conspirators in some ninny-minded game of hers. When she spoke though, her soft words came out laced with fierce intention and concentration.

“When we go in there I will flirt until one of the men tries to take me upstairs. You will then sidle over to the barkeep and ask him what kind of women his lordship Ramsay Bolton favors, and whether he can get us an introduction or not. You will not get into a fight with any man here in defense of my honor. You will not stop me or presume that I do not know what I am doing. Is that clear?”

“Yes milady,” he said quietly. Mother help him what was she planning?

They made their way into the tavern. It was full enough, mostly with men who lived in the Dreadfort, though there were a few travelers, villagers, and tavern wenches about the place.

Arya settled herself at a table closest to where the best dressed men at arms sat smiling prettily as a warm blush spread across her cheeks.

“Milords,” she said inclining her head at them deferentially. _This bloody woman._ Olly thought to himself darkly as he sat down across from her.

“’Allo sweetheart. And what brings you to this fine establishment on an evening like tonight?” One of the men at arms came swaggering over, leering down at Arya, from above, no doubt treating himself to a superb view of her breasts. Olly saw now why she felt the need to stop and warn him before they came out into the tavern. He was already seeing red, furious at the presumptuous bastards crowding around.

“Oh milords. My young brother and I are visiting with the hopes of getting an audience with the Warden of the North. Our father has just passed away you see, and his last wife has turned us out to fend for ourselves, an’ it being the middle of Winter and all. We were hoping the good lord Bolton might be willing to enforce our rights to the property sers, my brother here being the oldest. Without the farm milords, we’re both lost, him with no property and me with no dowry, no way to get a decent man…”

_Gods how ridiculous_. He thought as the men crowded around her murmuring their sympathies and offering to do unspeakable harm to her imaginary evil step mother. It was a variation of the story she’d told him and the other watchmen when she was still clad as a lad... though he had to admit it had some distinct advantages that it had lacked before coming out as the sob story of a beautiful damsel in distress. And that last bit about finding a man, seven hells.

“As it happens my love I might be able to help you get an audience with Lord Bolton. I am one of his son’s top liegemen,” said a middle-aged man with a weak chin and a rather expansive midsection. Arya looked at him with eyes so full of wonder and admiration you would have thought he’d declared himself the crown prince of Dorne.

“Oh sir! I would be forever indebted to you! Goodness me to be so close to such great folk! What is his heir like? I hear his lady wife is the most beautiful woman in the Kingdom save mayhaps Margery Tyrell!”

She’s smart, Olly had to give her credit for that. The men were shouting over each other to assure her that Ramsay Bolton’s wife had nothing on her.

“The lady Sansa, well she’s gorgeous but…”

“She has nothing on you lass! No spirit to her!”

“…just too cold for my tastes sweeting, meaning no offense to the lady.”

“…hardly gotten a good look at her since she started to show with child…”

So it was the Lord Commander’s other sister then. Olly felt himself straighten, more attentive than ever to the chatter of the men. The tavern around them was filling up and the noise level had risen substantially.

“Is she tall?” Arya asked, “I’ve always wished to be taller. Who would notice a little mouse like me when there’s a tall graceful beauty to be had?” She pouted prettily and Olly wondered for the hundredth time what kind of twisted things the Faceless Men had done to teach her to be such a chameleon. He was only beginning to understand now that her performance as Arry had been significantly handicapped by the fact that the Lord Commander was her long-lost brother. He wondered if Lord Snow had not been there if he would have noticed anything strange about the boy at all. Not that Arya likely would’ve given them the opportunity. Olly had had an excellent view of the fighting when the men ambushed the Lord Commander and he has seen first hand when she dispatched them with more ruthless efficiency than he’d ever seen before. And Olly had seen a lot of death in his fourteen years on this earth.

The men are jumped again at the opportunity to compliment her.

“No truly darling, though she’s tall your beauty…”

“…always preferred a small curvy lass myself…”

“She couldn’t hold a candle to you love! I swear it!”

“Now this…” came a steely voice from behind the ring of men. Everyone fell silent at once, fear seizing up each of the men at arms faces, “this must be quite a woman indeed, to so out shine my lady wife.”

The whole tavern was subdued now, and the men parted automatically to reveal a young man, well dressed in simple dark attire. His hair was a brown and cropped around his ears and he was of a midsized build. His face was technically formed to appear good-natured, but there was something off about him, something sinister in his dark eyes that made Olly want to rise and go for the door at once. Those eyes were currently fixed on Arya, appraising her greedily.

“Pretty, pretty I must say…” he said in a light almost sing song voice that somehow managed to be laced with menace despite its gaiety.

“But! I think lad that it’s just too close to tell from this vantage point. Come lass, we’ll take a closer look shall we? And then for fun you can tell me all about your petty little problems over your brother’s inheritance.”

He extended a hand to Arya, but it was clear from the tenor of his voice that it was no request. Still, Olly marveled, she kept up her flirty façade, somehow managing to rise from her seat suggestively all the while holding his gaze with alluring bedroom eyes.

As he led her away Olly heard one of the men at arms mutter under his breath. “Always ruins the fun Ramsay does. I’ve no issue with him going first, but by the time he’s done with ‘em there’s nothing left of ‘em worth bothering with.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is by far the most scandalous, out there chapter I've written so far. Please let me know what you think! I'd really like to hear what you think about the direction the story is going...

Arya

 

Ramsay Bolton was drunk. That was her strongest advantage and she was going to use it. He’d taken her back to the Dreadfort, as was his way. She knew she needed to get out of there before the night was up, hopefully find Olly still at the tavern and return back to their camp before Ramsay was any the wiser. If Olly went back to Jon and he came for her before she could get to him...

Well it just wasn’t going to happen. She’d kill the Bolton Bastard before she’d let Jon put himself in danger here. She was tempted to do it now anyway but it would be a messy job, completely unprofessional, completely beneath her training. And what’s more she wanted to use the man to find out why in the hell they were trying to kidnap Jon.

So for now, the best course of action was to play his whore. Arya wondered fleetingly if this would be the night she lost her maidenhead, playing a part and intentionally not killing the lecherous monster because the timing was wrong. _Well if it has to be, so be it_ , she thought to herself harshly. Still she felt a pang of regret.

He took her through the keep keeping a firm grip on her wrist as he went while she took a mental note of the route.

He took her to a room on the first floor of the castle and shut the door behind him, locking it but leaving the key in the door. _Good,_ she thought to herself, _he doesn’t see me as a threat. He’s taking no real precautions._

“What does milord want me to do for him?” she said meekly, peering up at him through her eyelashes.

He looked exasperated for a minute. “What’s the fun in any of this if you start out by asking me what I want? No sport in it at all… and don’t call me milord; I’m a bastard as you likely know well enough, and ‘tis the treatment of a bastard you’ll get tonight.” He moved towards her and Arya went to the side of the bed where a bottle of wine and two goblets sat. She poured herself a healthy glass of wine, then did the same for him stealthily slipping five drops of her Qohorik serum into his glass before handing it to him.

He raised his eyebrows at her, “thirsty my pet?”

She nodded, taking a large gulp of wine and he smiled, taking a drink of his own, his steely eyes watcher her over the top of his cup.

“You’re a bastard?” she said, more to keep the conversation going while the serum took hold than because she was curious already knew that.

“Yes, yes. Truly sad. My father never loved my mother. I on the other hand am exceptionally fond of all women, in my own way…” he said leering at her. She couldn’t tell from this response if the serum was working yet, or if he was just oddly sarcastic by nature. Qohorik serum was one of the most precious trade goods from the free cities, worth almost as much as their reworked Valaryian steel and ten times as much as their slaves. It had the power to loosen men’s tongues, forcing them to answer any question asked with at least some component of the truth, all while plunging them into a state of semi-euphoric intoxication. The House of Black and White had one of the largest supplies of the stuff in the world. Though they used it sparingly, they generally preferred it to torture and superfluous killings, as they taught their assassins to

“You must be the most powerful bastard in all of Westeros. Save maybe the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. I hear tell he’s a bastard as well.”

Ramsay let out a laugh at that. “I suppose he is in a way, yes, though not in the way he thinks. Poor sod. I thought it was difficult not knowing who my mother was, but he stupid fuck that he is, doesn’t know who his father is either! Though I suppose it’s a comfort to him that he _thinks_ he knows he’s ol’ Ned Stark’s lad.”

Ramsay took a long drink of from his glass of wine and she poured him more, hoping to get any of the residual serum off of the sides of the glass and into his system.

“If he’s not Ned Stark’s bastard, whose bastard is he?” She said.

“Curious for a wondering slut aren’t you?” Ramsay replied. Arya hoped her eyes hadn’t widened. He was resisting the serum which told her two things: he was incredibly strong willed, and she would need to be careful not to rise his suspicions any more. People who knew they were being questioned using the serum tended to fight it, and would often cry out before answering as if trying to yell nonsense to keep them from forming the words that would reveal their secrets.

She opted to giggle drunkenly instead and sit down on the bed cocking her head to the side to look at him instead, “I just like hearing about powerful people is all. Growing up, the Starks were the most powerful people I’d ever heard of save the King. Even their Bastards have more power than I could ever hope to…”

Something instinctive told her this line of suggestive conversation would be successful with Bolton. She remembered some of the whores of Braavos telling her that there are men who like to have all the power—like the man she’d killed from Mareen—and some men who get pleasure from taking power from you. Something about Ramsay told her he was the latter, despite his reputation as the former, and while she had still been No One it had been her plan to use that to her advantage if the occasion arose.

“Oh aye? And if I tell you of powerful people will that make _you_ feel powerful my pet?”

“No sir, but I can tell you what _would_ …”

His eyebrows went up at that and he peered at her, taking another sip of wine.

"Oh yes dear? And what's that?"

“Taking power over you.”

 _Got him._ She thought to herself. He choked on the sip of wine he'd been taking and he set his glass down. Slowly.  He looked back at her, his eyes wide, and from the way he shifted she could tell her words had given him a cockstand.

“And what in the name of seven gives you the impression that I would let you take power over me?” he asked, his voice straining to retain his sing song manner in the face of his building lust.

“Oh I don’t think you want to _let_ me take power over you…” she said, drawing herself off the bed and reaching for the ties at the back of her skirt.

“No? What then?” he said, his eyes locked on her arms as her hands disappeared behind her back.

“I think…” she said sending up a quick prayer that her instincts were right, “I think you’d let me fight you for it.”

With that she let her skirts fall away, revealing Needle belted around her waist. Her blouse was long, falling just a few inches above her knees, but other than that her legs were bare. She knew she looked like a well-armed harlot, but she hoped against hope that he’d take the bait.

His face split into an enormous grin. “What fun! Goodness me I am going to enjoy you so much more than I planned to.”

He cast off her cloak and outer doublet, so he was dressed only in his shirt and trousers with his sword belted low about his hips. She could see the line of his erection through his pants and felt a thrill somewhere between fear and excitement. He would be, she reasoned, a very attractive man if he weren’t so evil.

She drew Needle, reminding her to have a care with its edges. She’d steeped the sword in highly concentrated milk of poppy mixed with adder venom before she'd left the Nights Watch camp. It wouldn’t be enough to kill him, but it would knock him unconscious within a minute of getting into his bloodstream.

“When you’re ready, _milord_ ,” she said tauntingly, leaning to the side on her hip in a way that showed her curves at their most suggestive angle. Ramsay charged her, and she flipped up her discarded skirts in his way, laughing. He threw them aside, his face full of amusement and fevered desire to win and she swung for him - slicing him lightly on the thigh.   


“Cheeky bitch. I’ll enjoy tanning your sweet little ass for that.”

“Surely you can think of better things to do with my ass, milord?” she said hoping to God that what the whores of Braavos had told her was actually true and not just some jest they made up on a lark. From the look on her face she guessed what they had told her was possible, though lord knows why anyone would opt for that route, and she was forced to parry as he lunged for her again. She had about 30 second left before it would really sink in.

A couple more parries on both sides and he sunk to his knees a look of confusion coming over his face.

“Are you alright milord?” she said, dropping to her knees beside him, in order to get a better look at his eyes. Already milky, not much longer now…

He reached for her and pulled her under him with alarming strength given how drunk, drugged, and injured he was. She gasped as his body came between her knees and the pressure of him fell upon her sensitive folds. Holding onto his torso she rolled with him, so she was sitting astride him.

“Ambitious wench,” he said his words slurring, “I suppose since you drew first blood you get to start…” he was almost completely blacked out at this point.

“Ramsay?” she said, trying to call him back to consciousness for just a moment longer.

“Mmm?” he said, barely holding on to wakefulness as his limbs went limp.

“If Ned Stark isn’t Jon Snow’s father, then who is?” she asked, her heart in her throat, her mind begging for there to be at least some hint of the serum left in his blood.

“Raegar… Targaryen,” he said his brows furrowing with suspicion at the end. But it was too late. He passed out on the ground under her in a dead faint.

She stopped only long enough to strip his trousers from him (her skirts would be a nightmare to steel a horse in), remove all the contents of her skirt pockets, and admire momentarily his still enlarged member before she turned and fled into the night.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for your comments on the last Chapter! I really really appreciate the feedback and support. Things are going to slow down a bit on my end over this weekend because I'm on a family vacation but I'll try to see if I can get another chapter out before monday. For now, I hope you enjoy this one!

Olly

 

The relief he felt when Arya slipped into his room at the tavern was more palpable than any he’d ever felt before in his life. He had thought for sure she was done – Ramsay’s men at arms had even paid for his drinks and board in consolation – and that he was going to have to go back to the Lord Commander and tell him that his precious newly returned sister had been ravaged or worse by the Bolton Bastard. He would’ve gone already, except that he knew exactly how Jon would react, and he couldn’t quite work up the will to deliver his master news that would surely result in his Lord Commander’s death. So instead he’d waited at the inn like she’d indicated he should, holding out until the morning with little hope in his heart.

But she’d come, and apart from her change of wardrobe, which he’d pointedly not asked about, had seemed no worse for wear. She’d told him they needed to leave immediately and he’d been happy to oblige. Truth be told he wanted to be rid of the place for good and get back to his Lord Commander and the Wall where they both belonged.

As they rode out north of the town she spurred her horse into a trot, looking over at him and saying, “We have to hurry, he’ll likely be after us when he wakes.”

“You didn’t kill him?” Olly said, surprised.

She gave him a quick pointed look to see if he was teasing her but then she seemed to decide that he wasn’t and answered, “No. Never kill when you’re wearing your own face if there are people around who have seen you. We were too big a spectacle tonight in the tavern tonight for people not to piece two and two together if he turned up dead. As it is we’ll have a hard time getting away unnoticed.”

They rode through the night, swiftly and silently, and he found himself watching her face trying to make out a trace of what she’d just been through. She seemed lost in thought, incapable of giving attention to anything but the mysteries in her own head and the road ahead. About half way through their ride it began to snow, and by the time they got close to camp it was coming down in great white clumps from the sky. Olly sent a silent prayer up to which ever god was responsible for snow. After an hour or two of this, their path would be entirely covered under a blanket of pristine white powder. Which meant if no one found Bolton until day break they were in the clear. For now, anyway.

He was just starting to feel some of the tension leave him, starting to put the eventful night to rest, when they came into the clearing and he say the Lord Commander, more grim faced and imposing than he’d ever seen him, staring in their direction like a waiting statue. Olly wondered how long he’d been there, waiting just like that, and realized that he had had no idea what he was getting in the middle of when he volunteered to travel with Arya to Baldread. Relief streaked across Jon’s features at the sight of them but then his eyes locked upon Arya’s newly acquired trousers. He shot a look at Olly, asking for an explanation and in spite of himself Olly found himself looking down, unable to meet the Lord Commander’s eyes. The Lord Commander made a sort of strangled sound in his throat that he managed to turn into a dignified clearing sound, but Olly knew that he’d never yet seen his master this beside himself with rage and worry. Arya spurred forward then, coming between them and dismounting right in front of her brother. She returned his cold stare measure for measure, not flinching at all from the clear tempest of rage that stood a foot from her waiting to go off.

“Would you mind unsaddling my horse Olly? I need to speak to my brother.”

He turned at once to do her bidding, happy to for the excuse to get away from the stormy-eyed siblings before the tempest broke.

 

Jon

 

He could not believe her. After ordering about his steward at if he were he own she’d brushed right past him, going to the fire to collect a brazier of coals before marching into their tent without a backward glance. He followed her his ears ringing with a million unanswered questions.

_What took you so long? Where have you been all this time? Are you hurt? Is Olly hurt? What happened?_

Instead, as he stormed through the flap of the tent to see her bending over and stoking the coals in the brazier almost absent-mindedly, his mind formed around one, rather stupid query.

“Who in the seven hells do those pants belong to?” He asked his voice rough with fury.

She continued to stare into the brazier but shrugged slightly and answered him in a light casual voice.

“Ramsay Bolton.”

“And how did you get them?”

“I took them off him.”

Jon felt as if a cold hand had seized his heart in his chest. Still he pressed on, his voice low and almost casual in his rage.

“Hmm. And your skirts, where are they?”

“Still on the floor in his rooms I expect.”

 _How much clearer could she make it?_ A voice in his head admonished. Still he refused to believe it. Never in his life had his feelings been so physically discomforting. His chest, his stomach, even his limbs seemed to be burning with rage. The tent was painfully silent as he fumed and she just continued to stare into the brazier, seemingly enthralled by the glowing embers.

He found that he couldn’t take the tension and in a fit of absurdity he seized upon the nearest breakable thing, snatching his bow up from his pack and snapping it stupidly over his knee, the monster inside him roaring with pleasure at the shear destructiveness of it. He was bending down to pick up a blanket, preparing to rip it to shreds when she spoke.

“Jon?” she said lightly, her voice eerily calm.

“WHAT?” he roared his fists balled into the blanket he was preparing to eviscerate.

“Catch.”

With the flick of her wrist she sent a coal sailing towards him. He didn’t think, just dropped the blanket and snatched the thing out of the air before it landed on his pallet and set the whole thing alight.

“WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS—“ he bellowed, looking up in a rage. She’d crossed to him and was standing a hairsbreadth in front of him her eyes wary and filled with something like disbelief.

“Show me.”

“What?” he was genuinely confused now. What in the name of the Gods had gotten into her?

“Your hand. Show me.”

He realized then that he’d completely forgotten about the coal and released it with a jolt, letting the glowing ember fall to the dirt floor with a soft thud.

She didn’t wait for him to comply, but grabbed his hand and twisted it, forcing his palm upwards.

To his amazement, his flesh was sooty but otherwise unmarred. He stared at it, then glanced down to the floor where the coal sat still glowing softly with heat. What in the name of the mother…

He glanced up at his sister who still held his hand and found her eyes narrowed filled with suspicion and disbelief.

“Targaryen.”

 

Arya

 

He looked well and truly astonished at her accusation but she still felt herself filling with rage and bitter disappointment.

“What?” he said in utter disbelief.

“You’re a Targaryen. Ramsay told me.”

“Oh _Ramsay_ told you did he? What were you whispering about me between beddings?”

“There were no beddings.”

“You expect me to believe that when—“

“Believe what you like, but I’m telling the truth. I didn’t fuck Ramsay Bolton, and you’re not my brother.”

That struck him silent momentarily, and he stared at her his eyes wide. Her temper cooled somewhat as she realized that he genuinely had not known. The worst part of the ride back had been the constant thoughts flitting through her mind, that he had known, perhaps all this time, and not told her.

She reached out, resting her hand on his cheek peering into his stormy Grey eyes. Was it just her imagination or were there tints of purple in their steely depths. She couldn’t tell.

She sighed, withdrawing her hand and sank onto the pallet.

“I’ve heard about it in the free cities I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before. I was so stupid, playing No One not _paying attention_. God’s what an idiot I’ve been. All those rumors about the Mother of Dragons seeking her nephew being whispered in alehouses in Braavos and I was too busy learning to mimic whores to pay attention…”

He sunk down into a squat in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her lightly so she met his gaze which was so intense that Arya felt as if she was naked and exposed before it.

“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

She sighed again. “They’re saying that our… _my_ aunt Lyanna had a child by Raegar Targaryen before she died in the Tower of Joy. They’re saying that the child was a boy, that he was dark like his mother. The black dragon they call him, for no one knows his name.”

“Arya…”

“You’re him Jon. You’re the lost Targaryen. That’s why they want to kidnap you, that’s why Stannis wants you dead rather than in the Bolton’s hands. They’re going to take you and give you to Daenerys, and secure their position under the Targaryens for when they take Westeros.”

“That’s insane, Arya—“

“LOOK AT YOUR HAND JON!”

Her voice shook with emotion.

“You’re not… you’re…” her voice actually broke in a sob and he reached for her pulling her against her chest. She was so confused; so conflicted. Gods her brother, her favorite person in the world and he wasn’t even her family, not as closely as she’d thought anyway.

 _I can’t lose him to her_. The thought burned in her mind as she buried her head in his chest, so familiar and yet so different than it had been when they were children. She looked up into his face and saw that he was watching her, his eyes filled with as much confusion and loss as she was feeling. And before she knew what she was doing she tilted her head up and kissed him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've been on family vacation and I didn't realize until we got here that the house my parents rented had no internet. I also got a really condescending review on FF.net of chapter 12 so in case anyone else made it this far without realizing where this was going be warned now - this ff will feature a Jon Snow/Arya Stark romance. If that is not for you/ offends you please don't read on!

Jon

 

He stood stock still, his arms still wrapped around him as her soft lips assaulted his own. A voice in his mind told him it was wrong but it was quickly silenced as she shifted in his arms, pressing herself against him. Suddenly he was kissing her back feverously, his arms wrapping around her greedily. She moaned pleadingly and her hands came up around his neck, burying themselves in his hair. Gods she was so soft… so hot… so…

Her hands moved down his torso and jerked at his shirt, pulling it free of his britches hungrily. The friction against his lower abs only increased the tension building in his groin but the movement was enough to make him realize what he was doing he broke the kiss with a gasp, catching her hands before they could do any more damage.

“Stop. We shouldn’t…”

“Why?”

“Because its wrong.”

“It’s not. I want you to show me.”

“Arya I can’t—“

“Liar. You were about to before you stopped yourself.”

I can’t! Ok? God’s above!” he shouted his mind a queer mix of anger and lust. He needed to get out of this tent, he needed air...

She cocked her head at him appraisingly, her eyebrows raising in disbelief.

“Really? I knew you were more discrete than Robb and Theon when we were children but I had no idea… and all this time? Not even once? It’s no matter though, I know how it’s supposed to work, we can learn together.”

He felt heat rise in his cheeks, as his mind flashed back to the scenes of lust from his time with Ygritte, wondering in spite of himself which lesson she’d want to get first. Gods in heaven.

“That’s none of your business, and that’s _not_ what I meant. I didn’t mean I am _incapable_ of showing you, I meant my honor will not allow me. You’re a Stark of Winterfell and you’ll not lose your maidenhead to any man but your husband. It wouldn’t be right.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Jon how many times do I have to tell you, the days of being a highborn lady are long behind me. I almost lost my maidenhead to Ramsay Bolton tonight, I would have had the milk of poppy not sunk in when it did. Is that what you want for me? You want my maidenhead going to the first man who bests me in a fight? Because one day Jon, it will happen. Valar Morghulis – all men must die. But when I do, I’d rather not go with my virgin’s blood still wet on my thighs if it’s all the same to you.”

His hands fisted in rage at the thought. He grabbed her hips, gripping the loathsome trousers she was wearing and barely resisted the urge to tear them from her body.

“I would never let that happen,” he said, staring her in the eyes as he did to show her how much he meant it. Instead of filling with relief as another girl’s might have hers just flashed in anger at his words.

“You can’t stop it with promises Jon! Can’t you see how little promises of protection mean to me after all these years? No one knows the future and I don’t begrudge you for not being able to assure me of how it will go. But you _can_ stop that fate with action, and I can see that you want to, so I don’t see what the bloody problem is.”

He released her hips huffing in fury, and turned from her, bending to gather up his things. He’d sleep in the snow outside if he must, but he needed to get out of this tent. Just as he was about to leave, she came up behind him, pressing her body against his side and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“I haven’t told you everything. It excited me. When I saw Ramsay’s cock stiffen in his breeches while we were fighting it excited me in spite of myself. When I sleep next to you and feel you hard against my back it excites me too, so much I feel as if I’ll explode if I don’t get relief from it. I want to know about that feeling Jon, and I won’t stop until I do. If you won’t show me, I’ll find somebody else who will.”

He growled in fury and whipped around, pulling her against himself and kissing her ferociously. There is only so much prompting a man can take.

She moaned softly into their kiss and her fingers renewed their efforts at the hem of his shirt. They broke the kiss just long enough for her to pull it hastily over his head and then she was back in his arms, her bodiced breasts pressing tantalizingly against his bare chest. She ran her hands greedily over his torso exploring, seeming to marvel at the smattering of dark hair that had sprouted there since she had last seen him without a shirt. Her hands worked their way down over his abdomen and her teasing fingers seemed to send a jolt of excitement straight to his groin. He was just thinking that it was time for him to get her out of her bodice and get a better look at those exquisite breasts he’d glanced the other night when she dropped to her knees in front of him, fingers reaching greedily for the stays in his trousers.

_Mother be merciful._

“What- what in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?”

She gave him a pointed look as if he were incredibly dim. “This is how you’re supposed to start it. I’ve seen it done in Braavos. I take your cock out and—“

He stifled a groan as the offending member jumped at the suggestion. His baser half volunteered bravely to let her do things her way but he suppressed the thought, removing her hands from his stays and pulling her to her feet.

“Arya that’s not—what I mean to say is what you’ve seen, you’ve seen mostly in whore houses correct?”

She nodded, giving him a look that told him she was unsure why this was particularly relevant.

“Well, what they do in whore houses, it’s different than what people do who care for one another.”

She nodded, seeming to consider this for a second and then said casually. “Alright then. Show me both.”

_Gods in heaven_. He shook his head to clear his mind of the images that began to fill it.

“I can’t. That is to say I can’t show you both tonight,” he added hastily, seeing her jaw square for an argument, “men can’t do such things over again so quickly we need time to recover. Besides you want like the things they do in whore houses, they’re designed only to give a man pleasure, women get nothing out of them.”

She nodded again, her eyes fixed on his attentively.

“For tonight, all I can show you is how to relieve that feeling you were describing. Are you sure that’s what you want me to do?”

“Yes.” She said without hesitation. “Show me.”

He swallowed hard and nodded.

“Come here then,” he said in a voice so husky that he hardly recognized it as his own.

She came back into his arms and he kissed her, slowly this time. His hands worked between them, skillfully undoing the laces of her bodice and pulling the strings free loop by loop. Her unbound breasts surged forward and he brushed the curve of one lightly, but didn’t stop in his work. He felt her shiver at the contact and wished death and destruction upon whomever was responsible for bodices taking so long to unlace properly, but stayed the course nonetheless. Finally she was free of the garment, standing before him in her loose shirt and those accursed trousers. His hands itched to yank the shirt off immediately but he stayed himself, reaching instead to cup her breasts with the thin linen barrier still in place. Her nipples were already hard, and he slowly rubbed the pad of his thumb across them, dragging the fabric along as he went. She inhaled sharply, breaking their kiss and throwing her head back in pleasure, while arching her breasts deeper into his hands.

“Jon…” she gasped as he repeated the motion on her other breast, “Oh Jon I want…”

She was weak in the knees he could tell, leaning her hips against him and gripping him for support. Gods she was so responsive.

“What do you want?” he heard himself ask huskily, lift the shirt at last from her frame to reveal her beautiful swollen breasts.

“you—Oh gods Jon!” her exclamation came as he bent his head and took her one nipple into his mouth, his beard rasping against the soft flesh of her chest while his hand continued to massage the other breast expertly.

He growled and continued his attentions until she was so weak kneed that he thought she might collapse if he released his hold on her back. He scooped her up into his arms then, and laid her out gently on his pallet. She was magnificent to behold; writhing around impatiently and begging him to join her with her eyes.

Before he would lay down beside her though these accursed trousers had to go. He undid the stays and ripped them from her body in one swift move, tearing them in a renewed fury that anything of Ramsay Bolton’s had been allowed to touch her.

He glanced back down at her, only to realize that she’d forgone her small clothes for the day and was now laying before him stark naked. He sent a prayer to the Old Gods, begging for the strength he’d need to stick to his original plan. Then he dropped on the pallet beside her, and set his hands and mouth to work.

When he felt her find her release, he dropped a quick kiss on her forehead, and then before he could give her or his baser side time to protest, strode through the tent and out into the cold darkness of the night. He heard her call after him but stayed his course, he’d be damned if he would defile her with his unworthy lust any more than he already had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed it! Please review - and if anyone is more familiar with the rating system on this site than I am, please let me know if you think I need to move the story up to an E rating! Thanks guys!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter! I'm happy to get this one out again quickly, I'm hoping to get back on my previous pace :) As always please review! I love hearing from you guys!

Arya

 

She awoke to the feeling of Jon shaking her, about an hour before dawn. He was fully dressed for travel and the tent was nearly completely packed up.

“We need to go,” he said gruffly, “Vero spotted a hunting party just a few miles away. Best we get moving.”

She nodded at him and made to get up before realizing in a wave of shame that she was still naked beneath the blankets. Last night had not gone at all the way she’d expected. Jon had made her feel wonderful, beyond wonderful. Good gods when he’d kissed her there…

But then he’d left her. He’d left her and she’d called after him like some lovesick ninny and he hadn’t even looked back. She was surprised he’d come himself to wake her at all, although she mused uncharitably that he couldn’t send Olly to find her in such a state of dishabille.

She felt her cheeks flush as the thought and defiantly pushed herself up from bed, walking naked across the tent to her pack without greeting him at all. He may have made a fool of her last night but she knew the sight of her body affected him and she wasn’t about to make this any easier on the pigheaded crow.

She heard him cough and shift uncomfortably behind her but kept her eyes fixed on her pack as she bent over and began to rummage through it for clothes, refusing to acknowledge him despite the tingling feeling that began in her nether regions. She couldn’t remember ever being this angry at him in her life, and she whipped her clothes on with an indignant huff.

She turned back to face him then and caught the troubled, almost longing look on his face before he shook himself and turned to leave the tent.

“Gather all your things. We need to get on the road.”

Twenty minutes later she was mounted on her horse and they were headed out up the north road. They agreed that the best way to approach was to circle around the Dreadfort and come towards it from the south in order to avoid any sentries posted to keep an eye out for the Nights Watchmen. Jon felt that they should go North a ways, so as to get out of the immediate area. Then they would part ways, with any of the Nights Watchmen who wished to return to Castle Black heading North through Last Hearth, and the rest of the party swinging around west.

They trudged north in the snow for hours, with little conversation, and Arya found herself staring daggers into Jon’s back. She was stewing in her own bad mood as she rode along, cursing herself for getting distracted by Jon and wondering if the best course of action would be to leave in the middle of the night once they stopped and close the door on him and Arya Stark for good. How could she let herself get so off course? And for someone who was neither her brother nor interested in being anything more to her. She felt ridiculous, but what was worse is she felt utterly, and terribly alone.

Around midday they stopped by a stream to rest the horses for a bit.  Jon turned Bjorn round so he was facing Arya and his men, with his jaw set and Arya noticed that he barely spared her a glance before he started speaking.

“My sister and I will go to refill the water skins and talk over what must be done. Those of you who wish to return to Castle Black ready yourselves, and be prepared to part with us when we return.”

Not liking his presumptuous way of ordering her and them about, Arya sat on her horse defiantly, making no move to get down and do as he bade. He came up next to her and looked up at her eyebrows arched in silent challenge.

“Afraid to be alone with me now, are you?”

She felt rage cloud her vision and angrily she threw herself out of the saddle, pushing past him and making her own way down to the icy stream. He followed her down wordlessly until she stopped at the bank and bent for a drink.

“So, let me hear it then. You’re mad at me and you’ve every right to be. I took advantage of you last night and that was inexcusable. I should never have taken those liberties with you, and it won’t happen again.”

She almost choked on the water she was pouring into her mouth at his words.

“Gods damn it all, Jon! When will you get it through your thick, half frozen skull that I’m not some chaste child? I’m not mad at you for the liberties you took, I’m mad at you for leaving me, and for making it quite clear how little interest you had in what I had to offer. Gods, could you not have just said? Just told me that you’ve no interest in anything to do with Arya Horseface and have done?”

He grabbed her by the arms and almost shook her then, pulling her into him and glaring down into her eyes, his own matching eyes flashing in barely controlled rage.

“No interest? Gods Arya are you serious? You can’t be; you must just be trying to bait me. You think I would’ve slept outside in the snow if I had no indecent interest in you? You think it was easy for me to leave, easy for me to stop myself from taking you where you stood when you bent over your pack this morning doing Gods know what?”

“Then why did you leave?” she bellowed glaring into his eyes.

“Because I cannot, we cannot—“

“Weren’t you listening last night; didn’t you see your hand? You’re not my brother!”

He sighed, sounding as if he had the entire world on his shoulders.

“Aye I was listening Arya. What do you think I’ve been thinking about all this time? When I’m not berating myself for despoiling you I’m tearing out my hair at the thought that everything I’ve ever known about myself has been a lie. I would give my soul a thousand times over to speak with our- _your_ father once more and hear the truth from his lips. In my heart I know it to be true, I always knew that Ned Stark was too good to beget a bastard while his wife grew with child at home, and yet… Gods Arya you don’t know how hard it is to lose all claim to the only family you've ever known, even if half that family is dead and gone.”

Despite herself she felt her legs move to take her to him, and a moment later she was hugging him tightly.

“You’ve lost nothing. You’ll always be one of us, you always were.”

She could almost feel him smile above her, though her face was pressed against her chest.

“Thanks for that little one, you’ve no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. But you see now then why this cannot be between us, why even though my linage may be different than we thought for the love I bear your father—“

“I don’t see that at all,” she said, straightening and glaring up at him, “I think you’re just being a coward.”

“It’s more complicated than that Arya, you’re just trying to break everything down into a dare like you always do!”

She glared at him again, furious at him for saying so, in part because of how right he was. She was just about to answer back when Olly came crashing through the trees at a sprint.

“Sir! He’s gone sir!”

“What?” Jon said going to the boy. “What are you on about?”

“He’s gone sir. Maddox. Disappeared when we were supposed to be watching the horses. Vero had just finished telling him how he planned on staying with us an’ seeing this through an’ then next thing we knew Maddox was gone. Only the tracks he left were headed south, not north!”

 

Ramsay Bolton

 

As he knelt in the snow by the bloody carcass he felt the rage begin to boil over. This was his fourth prize hound to get its throat snapped by some creature in the woods and he couldn’t for the life of him understand it. It was like some monster was _trying_ to keep them from finding the crows' trail.

“Milord?” one of his liegemen said tentatively from behind. They always stood at least fifteen feet away from him, he noticed. Good. They should be afraid.

“Yes? What is it?” He’d realized long ago that he was truly more unnerving the more sugary sweet his voice was, and so even with his temper high the words came out in a syrupy sing-song.

“We found these milord. In the woods near where their camp was.” The man hastily placed the garment in his hand before swiftly retreating back to a safe distance. Ramsay shook it out and felt his temper nearly get the best of him. They were caked in snow and torn, but he knew his own trousers when he saw them.

He felt his member twitch at the memory of the mysterious woman and got angrier still. Gods what a woman she had been. All fire, nothing like his subdued and broken wife. What fun it would be to break her too, to take the fire from her eyes. She was an opponent worthy of him, unlike these sniveling worms he was surrounded by. But why had she chosen the Lord Commander over him? Had she given that bastard the pleasure of ripping _his_ trousers off her before letting him fuck her senseless?

If so, devil take his father and his plans with the dragon queen, he’d have his revenge on the Bastard of the Wall. Besides, there could only really be one Northern baseborn child elevated to Lord, and that was him. Any more, and his rise to the top became common place, unremarkable. He’d have his vengeance on Jon fucking Snow. And then he’d have the grey eyed girl all to himself.

Perhaps she’d offer herself up to spare Lord Snow pain. Ramsay burned at the thought, but whether it was more from rage or lust he could not tell.

“Let’s go,” He said, forgetting for once to lace his words with sweetness.

“Yes Milord.”

They were mounting and just about ready to leave when a galloping horseman appeared on the horizon. With a flick of his wrist, Ramsay ordered the archers to shoot him – someone would have to pay for his bad mood – but then something about him caught his eye.

“Hold! Let’s hear what he has to say first.”

As the man approached he realized what it was – the man was clad in all black. Nights Watch then. Surely Lord Snow was not so stupid that he would send a messenger? Did he know nothing at all about what happened to people South of Mole Town?

“Wait! Sirs!” the man panted.

“I am Maddox… Whitewater. Is it… is it true that you still have prisoners at the Dreadfort who were taken… who were taken from the Riverlands?”

“Yes… yes we’ve some of those prisoners left I expect. Though they’d fetch a high price, what do you have to offer that I’d want?”

“I can... tell you everything you need to know about the Lord Commander.” He said, his wheezing dissipating a bit.

A traitor then.  Excellent.  Ramsay's eyes sharpened and he glared at the man almost hungrily.  “And the grey eyed girl who rides with him? Who is she? Can you tell me about her as well?”

“She’s his sister.”

Ramsays eyes flashed with rage and he gestured at the man so that his men seized the traitorous crow by the arms.

“Bad guess I’m afraid. His sister – or the girl he thinks is his sister anyway – is my lady wife. And I can assure you that that lovely little spitfire is _not_ my lady wife. If she _was_ , I’d expect I’d be at home now, dancing attendance on her, rather than out here freezing my bollocks off with these ugly whoresons. Kill him.”

Ramsay turned sighing and made to get back on his horse. He supposed he’d just have to wait a little bit longer before finding out about his mystery woman.

“Wait please Milord! Its his other sister! The one who escaped the Red Keep! She’s a wild unnatural thing, raised by war and heartbreak. They grey eyed girl is Arya Stark, please my lord I beseech you!”

He turned back to the man, still struggling to get free of his men. His eyes were wild, but they held the sign of turth in them. Ramsay had tortured enough men to know when they were lying out of fear and when they were being honest. Arya Stark. Gods be praised, finally a lady wild enough to match his inner bastard. Perhaps when her sister gave birth to his son in a few months’ time he’d have her killed and start anew with her much livelier little sister.

“Stop! And you know things about the Lord Commander, and this long lost sister of his?”

“Yes milord,” he said, his shoulders sagging with relief.

“Bring him. It’s time we got back to the Dreadfort and made a report to my lord father.”   



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two in one day! Back on my crazy pace now that things have slowed down. I'm thinking about turning this into a series though since I have a pretty good idea about where to stop this one... just have to figure out all the details of what's going to happen in between! This chapter's a little short, but I hope you enjoy anyway!

Sansa

 

Sansa kept her eyes on her plate throughout the meal as she did with every meal. Her life had become one, drawn out blur of misery, with each miserable day melting into the next. Her ladies told her that she must keep up her strength for the sake of the child, but that only made her more miserable. She didn’t want it. She felt betrayed by her own body for allowing her Bastard husband’s seed to take root. After nearly two years of marriage she’d hoped that she was barren, or better yet that he was impotent, but the absence of her courses six months ago had eventually lead to the swelling of her middle, and now she felt the thing flutter inside her, mocking her with its vitality.

There were ways out she knew. But she could not kill herself, and when her washwoman had smuggled in the maidentrick berries she’d discovered that she couldn’t kill _it_ either, much as she hated it, and so she just continued.

Most nights she did not pay attention to the conversation occurring around the table but tonight they were discussing Jon. They’d stopped shielding their conversations from her ages ago, apparently it was clear to everyone that she was no threat.

“So he got the better of you did he?” Roose said, grinning coolly at his son, “the Bastard of the Wall bested the Bastard of the North by sending a woman to him? And you told her about his parentage? My my Ramsay what a piss poor job you’ve made of this one.”

Ramsay’s eyes flashed across the table and Sansa felt her heart speed up in her chest. He never lost his temper at his father no matter how much the older man goaded him. But embarrassment at the big table was always followed with pain behind closed doors. Since she’d become pregnant Sansa had been spared most of this pain. But still there was no telling…

“I don’t think he sent the girl to me father,” Ramsay said, his sugary tone not quite hiding the steel in his voice, “it wouldn’t make sense with all the other things we know about him. I think she came of her own accord.”

Roose laughed at that. “Oh really? And why is it that you think that hmm? You think your personal charms are so enticing?”

“No…” Ramsay ground out, barely hanging on to his temper, “No, I think he did not order her to come to me because she is his sister. I doubt very much he wants me despoiling _both_ Stark girls.”

Somewhere deep inside her chest Sansa felt a fluttering of hope. It was the most she’d felt anything positive since Theon had told her that Bran and Rickon had not been killed at Winterfell.  

_He’s lying._ She told herself inwardly _. After all this time, you’re still falling for his lies?_

Her father in law – if you could give him such a familial title – seemed to share her skepticism.

“Arya Stark has been dead since the beginning of the uprising. She likely got killed in cheap side before she ever left Kings Landing after they came to arrest her father.”

“She’s not, I had her in my rooms last night.” Ramsay said, chewing jovially. He always was at his happiest when he had something on his father.

“How do you know? Surely you’re not resting this all on the word of a turncoat crow? Haven’t you learned by now that people will say anything to you to avoid your sadistic games?”

Ramsay nodded in her direction and Sansa shrank back in her seat attempting to disappear into the dark wood.

“No father, I was planning on conferring with my lady wife. She should remember her own sister. Wife, what color were your sister’s eyes?”

“G-grey milord.”

“See father? Just like the girl. And her disposition, would you say she was meek and demure?”

She felt a clutch of fear in her chest. Usually Ramsay only wanted people to agree with him. This time though she thought he was trying to get the truth from her. Praying she was right she answered cautiously.

“N-no, milord. She was very defiant, sh-she even challenged Joffery himself over his ill-treatment of the butcher’s boy.”

“Ha! So it would not surprise you then if I told you this little hellcat challenged me to a swordfight then?”

“No, milord that sounds just like her.” For once, she wasn’t lying to him when he asked for her agreement. It did indeed sound like her long lost sister. But how could it be? She’d long stopped believing in blessings from the gods. Whatever gods there were, old or new, many-faced or made of light, she was sure that all of them hated Starks. Was it possible then that Arya, who was little more than a child when their father was killed had survived in this barbaric world all this time?

“Even if what you are saying is true, I don’t see how that helps us. They still found out about the Targaryens, and they’ve still fled. We need Jon if we are to have any hope of ruling the North once the Queen arrives, and without him to barter with, knowing the identity of one minor daughter of a fallen house is hardly worth noting.”

“But father don’t you see? We set a trap for him and it got both of them. The Starks are pack animals, even those of them who are really Targaryens. As long as we have Sansa they’ll come back. They’ll both come back.”

Roose Bolton sniffed derisively, but Sansa felt as if she was being warmed from within. For the first time in years hope was building in her chest and with it a terrible terrible fear. What he said was right, when she had been a Stark she had always felt as if her family would do anything for her. Her brother Robb had raised an army first to save, then to avenge her father. If her two remaining siblings had found out about her suffering here she felt sure.

But no. Coming here would mean death for Arya and capture for Jon. She couldn’t let it happen. She should kill herself now, before they could get caught up in the Bolton’s web.

She hadn’t been strong enough on her own, but maybe now, with her family on the line she could finally bring herself to do it. She snapped her attention back to the conversation before her, mind made up to take things into her own hands at last. At the far end of the table, her father in law and her husband were arguing intensely. Apparently the conversation had taken a turn for the worse. Sansa cursed herself for receding into her own thoughts. Of all the nights to be in her own mind…

“—and I’m telling you Ramsay that we do not have time to wait! If you think that they will come for her than I trust that instinct but we will need to make it feel more urgent for them. We don’t have time for a stalemate before—“

“Father she is carrying my child; that is my blood you are compromising!”

“Ha! You want me to stay my hand to protect the blood of a Bastard? Ramsay, I have legitimized you, but please let’s not lie to ourselves shall we? We’ve never been kind to each other but I like to think we’ve been honest. You have done nothing but torture this woman since the day she arrived here so pardon me if I am not overly swayed by your concerns. I am not asking your permission, I will do what I please with you, and what I please with your wife, when it pleases me. And whatever grandbastards you have growing in her womb will just have to wait. Guards, take Lady Bolton to her chambers. Have her servants scrub her hair until it is her natural color again. See that they do not slip her anything, I want you in her chambers the whole time. Then if you please gather her thickest cloaks and escort her to the cage.”

She barely had time to react before she was seized by the arms and dragged away from the table. She cast a glimpse at her husband, looking at him in a moment of complete absurdity for support. He simply sat, not looking at her pouting huffily over his dinner. Before she was dragged from the room she saw Reece settle back into his seat at the head of the table and nod towards his son.

“Cheer up Ramsay. If all goes to plan they’ll take the bait, and soon enough you’ll have a brand new Stark wife to impregnate.”


	16. Chapter 16

Arya

She could not forgive herself for her sloppiness. They were back on the outskirts of Karhold, back where she’d started her trip through Westeros, all because she’d trusted Jon’s trust in his men. She was disgusted with herself. She’d never be a Faceless Man now, not after this, and to be honest she wasn’t even sure if that’s what she wanted anymore, which made her more frustrated with herself for her bloody indecisiveness. Whether she was No One or Arya Stark she had never, never in her life been this indecisive. It made her feel restless. It made her want to kill. It made her want to pull Jon fucking Snow off his high horse (literally) and hit him until he was senseless and then kiss him until she was too.

Gods above. They’d ridden through the countryside almost non-stop for the last thirty-six hours, weaving their way around the countryside until they got to Karhold. They split up for short times, making their trail as confusing as possible while maintaining haste, but even so, Karhold would not be a safe haven for long.

She knew that the practical thing to do would be to disappear. To don a face and live for a while as if she were just another one of the small folk in the North, until all had settled down, and then creep in and slit Ramsay’s throat in his sleep. That would be what No One would do. But then, No One would turn to the wife sleeping beside him and slice her forearm from palm to elbow, before placing the knife in her opposite hand and fleeing into the night, so that all the guards would see in the morning would be a battered woman’s revenge and tragic end.

But she was not No One, She was Arya Stark, and Ramsay’s wife was Sansa. Olly and Vero had tried to get both her and Jon to consider that Ramsay’s wife might not be a Stark at all; that she might be someone impersonating one of the Winterfell children in order to lure Jon there. It was reasonable enough, and surely sounded like something Ramsay would do, but something in Arya told her that this was no trick of the Boltons’. After all these years of not knowing what was happening with her sister, whether she was dead or alive even, Arya somehow felt like now she just _knew_ that she was nearby, nearby and in danger. Jon had seemed equally certain in his resolve.

So they rode to Karstark, where they would get the men new clothes and then travel by boat to near the Dreadfort and to approach it from the East. Olly had donned Arya’s clothes again and gone into the city first to purchase clothing that was any color but black for Vero and Jon. They’d been waiting for him to appear for twenty minutes, and Arya was doing all that she could to try to keep herself from fidgeting, and to keep her eyes off Jon.

They hadn’t spoken much at all since Olly had interrupted them on the riverbank, only exchanging brief words in planning their new strategy of approach. Maddox’s betrayal was a huge issue, and they both knew their own issues could wait, but that didn’t make it any easier for Arya to ignore during the long silent ride. It didn’t help that she caught him looking at her too, on multiple occasions when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, sometimes looking as if he was on the verge of saying something, sometimes with an expression that made her think he was trying to peer right down into her soul.

She toyed with the idea of sparking up a conversation, just to get him speaking to her, to ease the tension over their little group, but she decided against it. She was bad at small talk at the best of times, and she was just too tired to attempt it now. Instead, she reverted into herself, digging into her pack for the things she needed and then settling down to sharpen her four throwing knifes.

Jon must have been watching her face while the indecision raged because he snorted and settled next to her on the ground, holding his great sword and his polishing equipment. It felt strikingly reminiscent of something they might’ve done at Winterfell, and she felt her heart squeeze at the thought. In spite of herself she glanced up at him, her eyes full of the effects of the half-memory, and she saw his face soften a bit at her gaze, and his own grey eyes crinkled slightly in response. He stopped polishing just long enough to ruffle her hair, with his hand, and she smiled at him in earnest before returning to her knives. Whatever they were going through, she knew that Jon was still there for her, and always would be.

Twenty minutes later she was feeling almost relaxed when Olly rode into their midst, the new garments packed over the back of his horse and his cheeks rosy from the cold of the ride. Jon jumped up at once at the harried look on the boy’s face.

“What is it? Is the town crawling with Boltons?”

“No sir, but there’s something you’ll be needin’ to see. Something to do with your sister sir, the other one that is, and I- well I… I think it’s best if you steel your nerves now, Lord Commander. There’s a chance the market square is being watched.”

Arya leapt to her feet and in one a flash her knives and the rest of the gear were back in her saddle bag. Jon gave her a look as if to ask her silently if she was ready for whatever Olly was warning them about. She gave him a quick nod, and he nodded back, then went to Olly, and took the proffered clothes.

He began stripping off his black clothes, on the spot, seemingly oblivious to the cold surrounding them and she turned back to her saddlebags, busying herself with nothing. As they had established earlier, now was not the time.

\---------

The market in Karhold was less crowded than it had been when she was a girl, but still there were enough people crowded around the raised pillory in the center of the market that she couldn’t immediately see the notice that had been nailed up there. Her and Jon had wound their way through the crowd, disguised as a young farmer and his wife on their market day. She had even taken the time to shake out her hair and do it up in some semblance of a half up-do in order to make it less obvious that they were as road weary as they were. They held hands as she snaked her way forward.

She was glad it was a notice – something in Olly’s voice had made her worry that she’d be viewing something a little more gruesome, but still rage boiled in her mind as she got her first glance of the thing.   Nailed to the pillory was a large piece of parchment, on which bold black letters were written.

_PEOPLE OF THE NORTH:_

_Let it be known that Sansa Bolton, formerly of the house of Stark has been accused of adultery and of attempting to pass off the baseborn child in her womb as the child and heir of her noble husband, Ramsay of the House of Bolton. For these crimes, which amount to Treason against the Realm, she is to be publically tried in the Old Way on the eighth day of this month. Anyone wishing to stand for her must report to the Dreadfort. If found guilty, her execution by flaying will begin the following day._

_Posted by Order Of Roose Bolton_

_Warden of the North_

Tied to the nail and blowing gently in the wind in front of the notice was one, long lock of auburn hair.

Sansa. There could be no doubting it now. It was darker than Arya remembered, though mostly at the tips as if she had dyed it and the dye had clung most stubbornly to the split ends at the bottom. It made the bottom inch or so look almost like Robb’s color, such a deep auburn that it could almost pass for brown until it caught the light and gleamed like warm brandy. But the rest, the rest was all Sansa. Arya had spent enough of her childhood mooning over that hair to recognize it anywhere.

She was glad Olly had warned her beforehand, but even with the warning it took all her will power not to snatch the hair down and clasp it to her bosom. Instead, Arya closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, focusing on the conversation in the crowd around her.

“What’s tried in the Old Way mean, daddy?”

“’At’s trial by combat love. I means they’ll be lookin’ for someone to stand in for ‘er in a fight to the death. An’ if they win, well then she’s not guilty. But, if they lose, well then that’s what the bit about the next day is for.”

Of course. Trial by combat. Well the Boltons certainly knew how to entice their target audience. It was a ploy to get them in, that was clear as day. Still, what in Seven Hells were they to do about it? They couldn’t leave Sansa there, not when it was so clear that they’d do violence to her in a second to get to Jon.

She opened her eyes and glanced at him to see his eyes still fixed on the paper, his jaw set in barely controlled rage. She reached out gingerly and grasped his hand, squeezing lightly. His eyes flashed up to her, burning with rage and momentarily she let her own passion show, let her own eyes burn right back at him to show him that she felt it too, the anger and the need to do violence. But then she blinked and shook her head slowly before tugging him away after her.

When they were clear of the area and no one was watching she pulled him in to her, smiling at him resuming their roles as two simple farm kids walking around market on a lark. She stood up on tip toe and spoke in his ear in a low voice.

“Jon, they couldn’t have made it plainer that this is a trap for you if they’d written ‘TRAP!’ on the bloody sign.”

“I know, I know.” He said back, dropping into the ruse as well and tickling her ear as he leaned into her to murmur back.

“And now with Maddox’s information they could be going for me too. Hell there’s a chance he’s put two and two together and knows it was me who left him in a state of dishabille four night ago.”

He broke character for a second and gave her a pointed look but didn’t respond. He took her hands again, and they left the market, making their way to the shore where they’d arranged to meet Vero and Olly.

When they got there Olly looked from one to the other of them and then sighed. Arya glanced at Jon to see that his jaw was set. She must have worn a similar look as well. Evidentially the obviousness of the trap was not enough to sway either of them.

“I have to go. But I want all three of you to return to Castle Black, and await me there. It’s too dangerous.”

“Bollocks. I’m not letting you walk in there alone.” Arya said, and Olly huffed his agreement.

“Arya…”

“Don’t Arya me! You’re being stupid. You _really_ think if you just walk in there by yourself Sansa will be any better off?”

“Arya it’s me they want you said yourself—“

“Jon, that doesn’t matter you don’t go up against the Boltons without a plan, didn’t you hear what happened to Theon?”

Jon grimaced at the thought. Rumors of the gelding of the Ironborn prince had trickled out from the Iron Islands and had spread around the North as further evidence of the ruthlessness of Ramsay Bolton.

“Arya, I’m not saying it’s going to be good but what choice—“

“ _We_ come with you, we make sure that if you _do_ throw your life away like an idiot that we _at least_ get Sansa out alive so you’ve something to show for it.”

She tried to keep her face as straight as she could when she said it, hoping against hope that Jon was too preoccupied with the myriad of other things he had to deal with to think through how utterly out of character it would be for her to leave him in danger to bring anyone, even her long lost sister, to safety.

He however gave her a pointed look. “No. I know what you’d do, you’ll pull something which will end up with you in the thick of things the second we get there. Go with Olly and Vero back to Castle Black.”

“First off, I am not a member of the Night’s Watch and therefore not yours to command. I’ll go where I bloody well please. Second, if you think I am going to sit on my ass at the end of the world while my only remaining siblings get captured and probably killed by the same people who killed my mother and brother then you have no idea who you are dealing with!”

“I thought we weren’t siblings?”

“WE’RE NOT JON BUT THAT’S NOT THE BLOODY POINT NOW IS IT?”

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Olly and Vero were looking quite shocked, evidently confused by this new development. Seeming to notice them too Jon sighed.

“Arya, what can I do, what can I give to keep you from coming and putting yourself in danger?”

“I love you Jon, but nothing.”

He sighed again.

“Alright then, what’s your plan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I've really appreciated the feedback I've been getting from you guys! Sorry these last few chapters have been a lot of build up, don't worry more action (of the violent and romantic variety) is coming I promise!


	17. Chapter 17

Jon

 

Jon stooped holding on to the ceiling of the cabin to keep himself from stumbling as the boat rocked and glared down at the single, rather tiny bed and wondered how on Earth he’d managed not to anticipate this problem. They’d paid for passage to the mouth of the Weeping Water on a ship bound for Widow’s Watch. They’d paid a fortune, actually, so that Jon could take Ghost along, but there was little he wouldn’t do to insure that the direwolf was by his side.

Still the captain was a goodly sort and he’d given Jon and Arya (still keeping up their ruse as a young couple) the first mate’s cabin for their one night journey. He’d been glad to get Arya away from the lecherous gazes of the crew, and gladder still to know that he’d be between her and anyone who might try to act on their impure impulses during the night, but he’d not realized how small the cabin actually was. The room was long and skinny, no more than five feet wide, four of which were taken up by the bed. At the end of the bed there was space at the front of the cabin enough for a table and a wash basin, but absolutely no room for anyone to sleep on the floor.

Evidently undisturbed by this development, Arya pushed past him to lay her pack in the little bit of space that did exist between the table and the bed.  She then sat down on the mattress, and began pulling off her shoes and stockings, hitching up her skirts unabashedly as she went.

She glanced up at Jon, giving him a look that made it clear she thought him incredibly dull witted.

“Well, close the door then.” She said, matter-of-factly.

“I’ll just…ahem. I’ll just sleep above deck than shall I?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, they think we’re husband and wife you can’t go and sleep elsewhere.”

“Arya…”

“Jon?”

“Arya, I’m doing this for your own protection, what happened the other night…”

“Lies, you’re doing this because you feel scared and guilty, not for my own protection.”

Gods she was infuriating.

“What happened the other night was a mistake.”

She raised her eyebrows, “I agree. You shouldn’t have walked out before the lesson was finished, it was stupid and probably less fun for both of us. It’s alright though, this time we’ll start with you.”

She was being her usual obstinate self, but that didn’t stop her words from sending a jolt of heat straight to his groin.

“Arya I have to go! You don’t understand…”

He turned to leave and she flew off the bed, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“Jon! Wait…” she said her voice catching. “I won’t, I won’t try anything like the other night, I swear, even though you’re being ridiculous. That- that’s not why I want you to stay. Or not all of it at least.”

He turned back to her to see her shoulders slumping. He’d never seen her look so defeated in his life. He was overwhelmed by how small she looked, how small she _was_ , really. She had so much fire in her that most times you could easily forget…

She glanced up at him then through her long lashes and he felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of his lungs. She really was stunning.

“I’m scared about what will happen tomorrow,” she said is a small voice, as if she was admitting to the deepest, darkest secret in Westeros.

He pulled her into his chest, unable to take her pleading look. Arya did not plead, and the sight of her so close to that shook him to his soul.

“Me too, love.”

“I hate the plan,” she said almost petulantly in a muffled voice against his chest. In spite of the gravity of the situation, he chuckled.

“It’s your plan.”

“It’s stupid. I’m stupid. I should’ve just killed Ramsay the other night. I could have, too, could have slit his throat in seconds, but it wasn’t _professional_ enough for me.” Her voice was tinged with bitterness.

“That’s not what you went there to do. Besides, then they’d have come for you and Olly immediately, might’ve overtaken you on the road. You’d never have been able to kill him and get Sansa away without anyone noticing.”

“It would have been better than this.”

He knew that disagreeing with her was pointless, so he moved on.

“They need me. It’s why they’ve gone through all this trouble in the first place. You’re right to think to play that against them. It’s smart. And they won’t hurt me overmuch before you come—“

“You can’t know that! You keep saying that but you don’t know do you?” She was glaring up at him, her face set in anger from their argument earlier. “Which is why you should take the blasted Adder’s Poppy like I told you.”

They’d had this argument already twice today and he grasped her by her shoulders glaring into her eyes sharply to try to get her to _listen_ to him and hear him.

“I’ve told you already. I’ll not be parted with my wits while in their custody. I trust you to get me out, though I’d stop you from doing it if there was any way I could. But I’ll not make it any easier for them to get information out of me, Arya.”

“They’ll torture you for it.”

“Maybe so.”

“And you think you’ve nothing to fear from torture, do you? You think you won’t want to talk—“

“I’ve been a prisoner before, little sister. And to men far more fearsome than Ramsay Bolton. I know what there is to fear. But I’ll not take the dram, Arya. Best let it go.”

She hugged him again, mumbling “not your sister…” and made a noise of frustration against his chest but didn’t argue the point any further. He glanced back at the bed. It _was_ getting late, and they _did_ need all the rest that they could get. The Gods only knew what the next day held in store for them.

“In you get then. But stay in your clothes, just in case we need to leave in a hurry.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, letting him know he wasn’t fooling her with his flimsy excuse for why she should stay fully covered, but complied nonetheless, taking off her bodice but staying in her overskirt and shirt as she crawled into bed. It didn’t help as much as he’d hoped, but he lay down next to her anyway, loath to deny her, or himself if he was being honest, what could truly be their last few hours together. He didn’t even protest when she came to rest her head against his chest, but instead put his arm around her, holding her close as she drifted off.

Sleep found her easier than he’d expected but he just lay awake for hours, listening to the sound of her steady breathing. He wasn’t aroused per say, though he had been earlier, but he did somehow feel hyper aware of her. Though the room was dark enough that he could only really make out her outline, he felt he could almost feel the brush of her long dark lashes against his chest through his shirt. She shuddered in her sleep and he held her tighter, wanting to protect her from whatever evils haunted her dreams, but not wanting to wake her. Her left hand, which was laying on his chest, balled into a tiny fist, tugging his shirt against his skin and sending ripples of feeling down his chest. Hmm… maybe he was closer to arousal than he had thought.

She shifted again, seeming to flinch away from something and he felt his heart clench. It felt as if he was intruding on something private, seeing Arya like this – so vulnerable, so without the steely competent façade she’d perfected in their years apart.

“No!” she whimpered in her sleep. “Jon, no… please.”

He flinched as if she’d struck him. Her nightmare was about him?

“Not Jon please. Take me, take—“

Not fear _of_ him but fear _for_ him, he realized.  He'd forgotten what it was like to be truly cared for in her absence. He'd always presumed he was unwanted or loathed, before  he'd assume to be welcome, even when he had still lived at Winterfell.  She had been the exception, her and Robb, though Theon's loathing of him mitigated the impact of Robb's acceptance of him a bit. Her love had been unwavering though, fiercer even in the face of others disapproval.  Her mother had hated it.  He could live a thousand perfect lives and never be worthy of the loyalty she'd given him unquestioningly from the moment she could stand.  And the Gods all knew, he was far from perfect.

She whimpered again and burrowed further into his chest. jon couldn’t bear it anymore, and he shifted, coming up onto his elbow and pushing her gently onto her back, shaking her lightly.

“Arya. Wake up love, it’s just a dream. Arya…”

He meant to wake her, meant to tell her that she’d better not offer to have them take her instead, no matter how unfair it would be to reprimand her for something she’d said in her sleep. But then her eyes flew open and fixed on him with such a mixture of desperation, shock and hope in them that it took his breath away.

“Jon.” She breathed, her hand coming up to touch his face as if she didn’t believe he was really there. It was a light touch, not sexual in the least, but loving, filled with all the devotion she'd shown him through the years and something decidedly different, something only a woman grown could give, and he was undone. In spite of everything he’d sworn to himself, and everything he’d said since their last encounter, he bent and kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Sorry this one took me a little while to write, I wanted to get it right and not rush things in a way that would make them inauthentic. I'd love to hear your feedback on how it came across. Also, forewarning - I'm pushing this up to an E rating, probably - ahem - when I post the next chapter... just FYI.


	18. Chapter 18

Jon

 

At first she was still beneath his lips, still caught up in surprise at her abrupt awakening but then she moaned and pressed into the kiss greedily. His baser self roared with pleasure at her reaction and he deepened the kiss, pressing fervently against her in the dark. She gasped and pressed against him in response, her hands flying up to tangle into his hair. Gods she felt like heaven. And those sounds she made...

With her bodice already off his hands began their exploration greedily, moving to cover her breasts over the thin fabric of her shirt. When his thumb grazed over her nipple she gasped, breaking the kiss and arching into the mattress beneath them. He took advantage of the break and began to press hot kisses down her neck, nipping her lightly as he went. The mewing sounds she made in response were almost enough to unman him but he continued his route down until he was kissing around the neckline of her shirt, his hands and his mouth crying out for more.

Her hands, which had been tied in his hair pressing his head against her left his dark curls and began to explore him in earnest, running over his chest and torso hungrily. They made their way down his abs and his muscles clenched tightly. He went to move her hands, his mouth returning to hers, trying to refocus their game on her body, her pleasure. But she was too quick for him, and one hand twisted playfully out of his grasp and pressed against the rigid line of his cock.

The contact was enough to make him gasp and he pressed himself into her hand before he could stop himself.

“Not me love… just you for tonight.” He managed to rasp out, moving her hand away in spite of the fact that every cell in his body seemed to be screaming in protest.

“Why? Jon I want to. I want to make it good for you.”

Seven hells.

“It’s already good for me. I don’t want to—“

She laughed, her voice husky with lust and her confounded hand found him again in the dark, her palm running down the length of him through his trousers. He made a growling sound and buried his head in the crook of her neck nipping her to keep himself from crying out in pleasure at her touch.

“Hmm…Your body seems to say otherwise.” She said coyly, and he could almost hear the grin of triumph in her voice.

“Arya…” he ground out between gritted teeth, trying to ignore the aching in his cock, “I’m doing this for your own protection. If you touch me, I won’t- I can’t stop like I did the other night, Arya. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

She made a sound of satisfaction, somewhere between a hum and a purr, and pulled loose his stays deftly in the dark. Then, so languidly that he almost came undone, she moved her hand beneath the waist of his trousers and wrapped her fingers experimentally around his pulsing cock.

“I like dangerous games.”

Gods, wasn’t that the truth…

\----------------

He meant to stop her.

Every new boundary she crossed he told himself it was the last one, that this was as far as they’d go, but from the moment she touched him there he was putty in her hands.

When she drew his cock out of his trousers and stroked it with her hands he told himself it was just exploration; that it would go no farther than that.

He’d even told her not to when she kissed her way down his torso, once he realized what she was going to do. She had just laughed at him and swatted his hand away.

“I want to see you writhe like the men in Braavos,” she’d said wickedly, “and I want to see if you’re right about women getting no pleasure from such things.”

Minx. He was powerless to stop her. Who could refuse such a bold request? Not that she’d waited to hear his refusal, she’d just dipped her head low and drawn her tongue tentatively along his length, making him see stars and effectively putting an end to his capacity to hold a conversation. He couldn’t even keep himself from swearing and moaning out loud when she wrapped her lips around his head. And gods when she began to move…

But he should have done _something_ to stop her, something to prevent her, when her mouth left his cock and she came to kneel astride him. Instead he’d just gasped her name, half warning, half begging her to continue.

And she had. Seven hells he’d never felt anything so wonderful in his entire life. Leave it to Arya to take her own maidenhead. She’d cried out as she sank onto him and he’d sat up, holding her against him and kissing her face and neck as she got used to the feeling of him inside her. He’d meant to kiss her to assure her, to show her it was ok, but once his kisses began to feather her the crook of her neck she’d gasped and leaned into him, her nipples brushing the course hair on his chest, and her hips grinding against him. Then tentatively she began to rise and fall.

He’d let out a half growl half moan then, which she’d taken as encouragement and she began to ride him in earnest. He took one of her sweet nipples in his mouth as she rode and she cried out, her breathing getting shallower and shallower. He'd known then that she was close, but that she didn’t know, had no idea what was coming, and he’d lost his mind at the thought. Her legs had begun to tremble with the effort of the unfamiliar movement and for the first time since she’d touched his cock he took back the reins, holding her still against him as he rolled them so she was on her back.

She’d let out a pouty little noise of protest, but it turned to a gasp instantly as he ground into her, focusing every part of his being on bringing her pleasure. It hadn’t taken long before she found her release, crying out and digging her fingers into his shoulders. It had been enough to pull him over the edge after her and he hadn’t had the time or the will to unlock her legs from around his waist before he spent himself, still buried deep inside her.

And now as he lay on his back with her sleeping soundly on his chest, thoughts of what they’d done swirled through his mind. He meant to lay there, berating himself internally for his colossal failure to contain himself. But as sleep began to claim him, he realized that since Arya had come back into his life, almost nothing had gone as he meant it to, and he couldn't even pretend to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smuttttt.... yeah I'm not really sure how to write such things so if this was horribly awkward I apologize... Also, you'll notice I pushed it up in ratings, that was for this and some stuff I have waiting in the wings for later chapters, so I hope that's alright with everyone. As always please comment, I love hearing from you (even if its just to tell me that maybe I should stick to writing PG-13 and under)


	19. Chapter 19

Olly

 

He’d never seen the sea before. It made him apprehensive when they first got on the ship at Karhold, the seeming emptiness and isolation of it. And when the fog began to close in around them and obscured the land he’d felt his heart constrict. He'd thought he wanted nothing more than to get back to land.  But when he rose in the morning to the calls of the men as land came back into view, he realized that he was filled with dread rather than relief. They were at the mouth of the Weeping Waters, only five miles from the Dreadfort, and that meant that this stupid, reckless plan was really about to be put into action.

He’d never been this uncomfortable with anything his Lord Commander had asked him to do. It wasn’t that he minded the danger that the mad race back to the ship would entail, he would walk through all seven hells for his Lord if he asked him to, it was the fact that he was being counted on to _leave_ him. To leave Jon Snow, the man who’d given him a home after his parents had died, who’d protected him from lecherous brothers in the Nights Watch, who'd come to be both his leader and his friend. He knew in his soul that the Lord Commander was the Realm's best hope against the Others, the White Walkers whose victims even now assaulted the wall, throwing their undead bodies against the great wall relentlessly, unaffected by anything but fire.

He just didn’t like it. The apprehension in his chest built as they drew closer to the shore, and the Lord Commander appeared clad in his familiar black, his sister following him like a shadow. She was clad in lad’s clothes again, and he was overcome again with surprise at how genuinely small she was. He couldn't help but like her, in spite of her role in this ridiculous plan and the undeniable complications her appearance had caused. No he liked her very much, and as she turned towards him, surveying the shore behind her, he caught the look in her eyes and was reminded why.

The grey eyes were undeniably similar to those of her brothers. But while the Lord Commander’s eyes were often set with determination, Jon’s eyes, even at their most alarming, reflected cold, hard justice. Her eyes were different. When he saw them lock onto the trail they would be taking to the Dreadfort, he didn’t see the steely but just resignation that the Lord Commander emanated. No, her eyes shone with something wilder, something maybe even more terrifying. If the Lord Commander was justice, she was fury. Righteous fury, honorable rage, but fury nonetheless. It was not a welcoming look, but it gave him comfort to know that her almost-otherworldly anger would be bent on seeing this ridiculous plan succeed.

Had anyone else said that they would sneak into the Dreadfort while the Lord Commander was distracting Bolton and his men, hole up there, and then free Jon Snow with nothing but rope, her throwing knives, a sword, and some Braavosi potions for support he would have laughed in their face. But with Arya… he almost believed she could do it. Gods he was glad she was on their side.

“Right. We’ll be here for twenty-four hours, an’ not a second longer,” the captain said to Jon, trying to give him a stern look but failing utterly to come close to the Lord Commander’s innately somber demeanor.

“I appreciate it more than you know. When Vero and the boy return, set sail immediately. Then this-“ he said hefting a heavy bag of gold dragons into Olly’s hands, “Will be yours.”

The captain nodded, eyes locked on the gold. “Right you are sir.”

Olly hoped they were right to put their trust in the old captain, but what choice did they have? This whole thing was fraught with one terrible option after another, and he couldn’t begrudge the Lord Commander for taking gambles to save his sister from what would most assuredly be a horrible death. For probably the dozenth time Olly wondered what this other sister would be like. He couldn’t imagine she could possibly be that similar to Arya, for Arya would surely have killed her way out of the Dreadfort by the fourth night of her marriage at the latest. Still, he was curious.

They disembarked and readied the horses in near complete silence, each person focused on the task ahead.

“Olly, help me with my sword will you?” the Lord Commander called, beckoning him away from the others with the wave of his hand.

“Yessir.”

He went over expecting to strap the impressive Valerian blade around the Lord Commander’s waist, only to find that it was already there and that the Lord Snow was attempting to take it off, rather than put it on.

“I need you to take this, lad. I cannot have it falling into the hands of the Boltons, I’ll not see that dishonor done on House Mormont. Wear it yourself, and if need be I want you to use it to escape. There is a chance that none of us will make it out of this alive, not me, not Vero, not Sansa and not Arya. If things go awry, I need you to promise me that you’ll ride as fast as you can with the sword and the gold for the coast, that you’ll get on the ship and not look back.”

“But Sir the plan—“

“I know what the plan is lad, and if it goes as it should then this vow will be fulfilled either way. But I’ve no way to know that things will go as we want them to, there’s too many variables. So I’ll have your word, as your final act as my Steward, Olly, or I’ve no choice but to leave you here in safety.”

“Sir!”

“I may lose the only remaining members of my family today, Olly, I’ll not lose you too if I can help it. Now swear.”

He swallowed feeling an enormous lump in his throat, and threw all his will into keeping the tears that were threatening to being welling in his eyes at bay. Still when he spoke he was relieved to hear that his voice came out clear.

“Aye. I swear it Lord Commander. If things do fall apart, I’ll come back here as you say.”

Jon nodded, his eyes simultaneously stern and full of an affection that made Olly’s heart break even more than it already was. The Lord Commander then clapped him on the shoulder, and nodded back towards his horse.

“Off with you then.”

And with that, they mounted and began their way down the road to the Dreadfort.

 

Ramsay

 

Ramsay Bolton did not think he’d ever been this angry. He’d been furious since his father had taken his wife from dinner. That fury had doubled when he found out his father had had her hair sheared off below the chin to be sent out to every miserable township in the North with a proclamation accusing her of adultery. That had been the worst, just thinking about it sent a fresh wave of rage through him. The whole country was laughing at him, mocking him for being a cuckold as well as a bastard, incapable of holding the attentions of his noble wife. Now, even as she hung above the keep in a cage for all the world to see (as much to provide her siblings with further verification as to punish her for the fabricated crimes she was accused of) he fumed.

He’d flay her live, just to silence their laughs, even if it did cost him what should be his firstborn, but even that small comfort was denied him until the day after tomorrow. They needed time, his father insisted, time to draw her bastard brother back in. Jon fucking Snow. The bastard his father was bending over backwards to court. The thought of it made Ramsay sick. So what if he was the byblow of some Targaryen prince? He was still a bastard, and Ramsay would see Jon Snow brought low for what this ruse had cost him, his father’s will be damned. As long as they _got_ the Head Crow, the Targaryen’s couldn’t be _too_ upset.

The only real solace he got was that their snare might catch her grey-eyed sister as well. Gods that minx. He’d never spent so much time thinking about a woman in his entire life. The way she’d left him, half naked on his chamber floors… just the thought that she’d gotten a look at his manhood after she bested him was enough to make him hard. He’d have the little voyeur slut, and breaking her would be the most fun game he’d ever played. More fun even, than training Reek…

His hand dipped into his trousers, stroking his cock lazily at the thought, when suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door.

“Milord!”

“What!” he spat out, furious at the interruption.

“Riders approaching milord. Two of them. Clothed all in black sir. Your father’s already at the castle wall.”

At last.

When Ramsay got to the castle wall the first thing that struck him was a profound sense of disappointment that the girl was not with Snow. The first approaching black brother looked like the description that the traitor crow had given for their prized bastard, and Ramsay was furious to find that he did strike as imposing a figure as had been described.   Clothed all in black, with his dark lochs framing a pale, angular face, he looked like a proper Lord Commander, like a true prince of the North. The thought made Ramsay’s blood boil as he approached his father who was looking down at the man with his familiar look of shrewd appraisal.

“Ramsay, how nice of you to join us,” his father said, his eyes still locked on the approaching man. “I’m going to go down and treat with him. Will you come down and behave yourself? Or would you rather stay up here and sulk like a child?”

“After you, father,” he ground out, somehow keeping his voice from being as full of venom as he felt.

“Mmm, good. And just so you know, I’ve sent Winters up to fetch your lady wife down.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. I know diplomacy is a bit above your breeding Ramsay, but do try to see that it can be necessary to do things civilly in order to get what you want.”

“I’m always happy to learn new ways to get what I want, Father.” He said, keeping his voice calm over his rage.

By the time they got down to the gate, Snow was no more than twenty yards from the gate, with nothing separating them but the iron grate of the portcullis.

“Lord Commander! How good of you to join us, we expected you a week ago!” His father called out; the welcoming tone not quite masking the cold steel in his voice.

Instead of answering right away, the man dismounted, getting off his powerful beast of a stallion and handing the reins to the other crow with him. In a flash he drew his dagger, but instead of hurling it through the gate at his father or himself, as Ramsay had thought he might, he brought it up to rest against his own throat.

“I know what you want Bolton. I’ll see my sister safely delivered from this hellhole you call a keep, and then you can have me to deliver up to Daenerys. But anything less, any resistance on your part, and you can explain to the Queen of Dragons why the Targaryen Prince she wanted is actually just her house's most recent martyr.”

Clever crow. And so noble. Gods Ramsay had never hated anyone so much in his entire life. He saw his father’s jaw set in anger at the site. It seemed the crow had as much use for diplomacy at Ramsay did himself.

“Winters, bring forward Lady Bolton. Show her brother that we’ve treated her justly given the gravity of the crimes with which she is accused.”

Behind him, the guard moved; and Ramsay got an up close glance at his wife for the first time since they took her away at dinner. Since then she’d been housed in the cage, one of Ramsay’s least favorite torture devices in the Dreadfort. Sure, it was embarrassing to be housed completely publicly, and uncomfortable to be exposed to the elements at all hours of the day, but what was the fun of torturing someone if you couldn’t see them suffer up close?

Despite her exposure and the other unpleasantries she’d experienced since their last encounter together, Sansa looked well enough. The cropped hair was a shock, but somehow she still managed to wear it elegantly. If anything the chin-length lochs accentuated the sharp angles of her face, making her look more bloody regal than she seemed regularly. He felt his temper rise at the thought. Even after these long years, she still thought herself better than him. Gods how he hated her, his smug and beautiful lade wife.

Winters shoved her forward and he got a glimpse of what she was clothed in. If his father’s intention had been to present the perfect damsel in distress, then he’d succeeded masterfully. She was clad in nothing more than a long sleeved white shift, the heavy blankets and cloaks they’d given her during her confinement in the cage all stripped away from her. The linen clung to her body, highlighting the bulge of her pregnant stomach and the swell of her newly full breasts for all to see. She laid a hand on her womb as she walked, looking like the mother herself as she futilely tried to protect the child within.

When she saw her bastard kinsman, her face broke, first into a look of utter hope and longing, then into a look of complete distress.

“Jon!” she cried out, the word escaping her as a half sob. That made him even angrier. She hadn’t sobbed for him in months, maybe even years, and here she was sobbing just at the sight of this Crow Bastard?

“Sansa.” He said, his eyes flying over her, burning with fury at her state but clearly glad to see that the woman from the cage was in fact her. The Lord Commander pressed the knife harder against his own throat, and refocused his gaze on Roose, “let her go, and you can have me.”

Ramsay grinned smugly in anticipation of his father's smug rejection of Snow's terms.

“Done!” his father said, calmly, “raise the portcullis.”

“What?!” Ramsay spat before he could catch himself. “That’s it, you’re just going to give her to him?”

“Ramsay, once the Targaryens come—“ but Ramsay didn't wait to hear it.

“Where is your other sister?” He called out to the Crow, speaking over his father.

The bastard narrowed his eyes, and Ramsay knew he’d found a weak spot.

“I _liked_ her," Ramsay said, falling into his stride and adopting his favorite sing-song voice. "How about this, we’ll let you keep Sansa, even forgive her for her egregious crimes against me, if you throw Arya into the bargain. I’ll even marry her when your auntie comes to pick you up. Then everyone leaves happy!”

“If you think I’d let the likes of you touch her—“ Snow growled, taking a step towards Ramsay menacing even while he still had the dagger pressed to his own throat. Quite the soft spot then. His father was having none of this though and intervened, giving Ramsay a hard look that told him not to try him.

“Forgive my son Lord Commander, he is upset about losing his wife. Given the charges she really _should_ face trial, but if that is your price for full cooperation—“

“It is.”

“Well then as I said. Raise the portcullis!” His father said, and then turning to him in a low voice murmured, “you may set your dogs after her the moment I have him in my grasp with that knife away from his throat but for now you _will be silent_.”

He was too enraged to trust himself to speak but he stayed quiet all the same and watched as the metal grate drew up and his wife took a few tentative steps towards the Lord Commander. Silent tears were running down her face as she her pace quickened and she came right up to the Lord Commander and reached for the knife pressing to his throat.

“Jon no! Don’t trust them, they’ll never let me go, they’ll never let you win.”

“It’s alright. You’ll be alright,” he cooed softly to her and Ramsay felt as if his rage was going to boil over where he stood. This black bastard was in no position to offer her safety, the idiot! But still he beckoned to his companion to help Sansa onto his stallion, and managed to shed his great cloak one handed without moving the knife an inch. This he flung over her inexpertly and she clung it to about herself and inhaled deeply through the tears as if nothing in the world had ever given her such comfort.

It was more than Ramsay could stand.

“You think she’ll get far like that? Once you lower that knife I’ll be after her faster than you can have time to think about how stupid you’ve been.”

The bastard glared at him, eyes full of icy rage.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said in a low voice, and with a quick smack sent his stallion galloping at alarming speed down the path that followed the Weeping Waters, with Sansa on his back. In less than a second his crow companion was galloping after her, leaving the Lord Commander standing alone and cloakless, with nothing but his dagger pressed to his own throat.

“Now Lord Commander, if you would be so kind as to join us…” his father said, triumph lighting up his face. It was too much for Ramsay to take, his father’s total indifference to his humiliation at the hand of this crow, and the older man's delight with taking the man as if he was some kind of a prize worth having. It made Ramsay sick with rage and jealously.

After a minute, watching the rapidly shrinking shapes of Sansa and his man, Jon Snow sighed, lowering his hand and throwing down his dagger in disgust.

“Guards please take the Lord Commander to a chamber befitting his status, and make sure that he is kept safe from any sharp objects should the urge take him again to be so flippant with his own life,” Roose instructed, and the Bolton men poured out to the keep to take hold of the fallen crow.

But Ramsay wasn’t listening, the moment Jon Snow had dropped his dagger he'd turned on his heel and made his way back into the keep. He would have his shot at Jon Fucking Snow later, but first his pride demanded that this be dealt with.

“Mryanda! Get the dogs!”


	20. Chapter 20

Sansa

She’d already been riding faster than she had ever ridden in her life when she heard the first howls of the dogs, but at the sound of their barking she dug her knees into the flanks of Jon’s beast of a horse and flattened herself on his back, urging him forward. She was flying alone down the path, with no idea where she was going, but she didn’t dare slow her pace. She’d seen how fast those dogs could run, and they had only a few minutes head start. But gods where were they going? How could they possibly escape?

“Milady! Follow me!”

She rounded a bend in the road to see a fork with another crow, this one no more than a lad, waiting on a speckled gelding. At the sight of her he spurred his horse into action, thundering down the left fork, and she flew after him, catching him easily as he tried to urge the horse from a dead stop into a gallop. Still, his Gelding matched her horse surprising well and neck in neck they thundered down the trail.

Even at their insane speed, the barking was getting closer. In spite of her frenzied pace she couldn’t help but risk a glance back.

Oh Gods. Ramsay had unleashed them all. The pack was sprinting full speed down the trail behind them, braying as they went. There had to be at least twelve of them; all trained to rip apart anything they caught. All coming for her.

“Where- where are we going?” she managed to yell over the sounds of their galloping horses and the dogs to the boy-crow.

“There is a ship waiting for us at the mouth of the Wailing Waters! Don’t worry milady we’ll be safe!”

Only four miles then. Still, even a great horse like Jon’s couldn’t sustain a gallop for more than two miles without needing to rest, and the dogs were already gaining on them.

She glanced back again, looking back at the black brother who had helped her onto her horse. Unlike the boy, his horse was struggling to keep up with her destrier. There was now almost as much distance between them and there was between him and the dogs. Seeing her looking back, the older crow nodded in acknowledgement of her gaze, almost as if to say that he understood the direness of his situation as well.

“Ride on milady! Ride and don’t stop!” her older savior cried out, pulling on the reins of his horse, and bringing his tired mare around to face the dogs.

“What is he doing!? They’ll kill him! Please don’t!” Sansa screamed, but her horse continued to carry her forward at breakneck speed, as the man got smaller and smaller.

“He knows what he’s doing milady, please, ride on!” the boy called to her. Her eyes flew back to the trail, but not before she caught a glimpse of the boy’s face, which was white as a sheet with shock.

He slowed his horse into a canter to preserve its energy a bit and she followed suit. The trail had turned so neither the old crow nor the dogs were in view now, but as they rode the sound of the now fading barking was pierced with the eerily high-pitched whine of a dying dog. A few moments later, the cries of the dying dogs were drowned out by the much more jarring screams of a man.

The shock of it was enough to make her pull on the reins and pull her horse to a full stop.

“Oh gods. This is all my fault.” She was horrified, she hadn’t thought her life could get any worse but here she was, causing pain to her family and those who fought for them _again_. Gods if only she had half the bravery of her siblings she would’ve taken her own life long ago…

“None of this is your fault. Vero made his choice. But now Milady, _please_.” The boy’s voice was rough with emotion but his eyes were free of tears as he beckoned to her to continue down the path. “We’re more than half way there, please milady come away.”

She nodded. She would keep going. She had to. Too many people had suffered today for her to not _try_. She pushed the horse into a trot again and then into a canter and the boy matched her step for step. Together they rode on, trying to ignore the horror of the screams of the man and the mare in the background as they died away.

The sounds of the dogs remained distant for a time, but before long she heard the barking of a few, gaining on them again. Gods how she hated those infernal dogs!

They still had a substantial lead, but what on earth would they do when they reached the shore? The boy, evidently coming to the same realization glanced over at her, seeming to size her up as she rode.

“Have you ever handled a weapon before milady?” he shouted over the sounds of the nearly exhausted horses.

“No, I haven’t. I’m sorry!”

“It’s ok. Slow for just a second. I’m going to hand you my crossbow. It’s the easiest weapon to handle, all you need to do it point it and shoot.”

She nodded and slowed her horse momentarily, taking the proffered crossbow. The boy still wore a full-sized bow on his back and had a sword strapped to his belt, and he nodded at her briefly before pushing them both back into a canter once more.

They rounded onto a straight stretch of the road and Sansa could see the sea in the distance. For the first time since they’d taken her out of the cage she felt her mind actually entertain a flicker of hope. She was pained all over, with a special, heavy ache in her womb but all she let herself think about was the path in front of her melting away under her rides pounding steps.

A particularly loud snarl from behind her caused her to look back again. The dogs had rounded the corner too and now had them in their sights, though only seven of them were in view. The alpha male, his snout smeared with blood let out a howl and bounded forward, impassioned into a frenzy at the sight of her looking back. Suddenly, a white blur flew out of the woods besides the path.

_Ghost._ She thought in utter astonishment. The direwolf was at least twice the size he’d been when she’d last seen him, but he had to be one of the most recognizable creatures on the face of the planet. She’d remembered him as being among the better-tempered of her siblings’ wolves, but now he was fearsome to behold, his huge jaws locked around the neck of the alpha.

He shook his head violently, breaking the dog’s neck as easily as if he was a wood hare, and launched himself onto one of the other dogs in the pack. The dog, taken unawares was not prepared, and another earsplitting canine cry reverberated through the forest.

Still there were five dogs left, and one of them bit down hard on Ghost’s back as another one went for his throat. He managed to pull back before the second dog could do any damage and swiped the lesser beast away with one of his enormous paws while shaking free the first dog. Still the damage was done, and as he circled back around the pack snarling menacingly Sansa could see a deep red stain seeping down through his snowy coat.

The dogs lunged together as a pack and Ghost caught one by the throat, killing it instantly, but two more landed hard bites on his flank and shoulder. Somehow, over the din of everything, Sansa heard the unmistakable whine of the direwolf.

_Oh gods. They’re going to kill him. They’re going to kill Jon’s wolf._

The thought was enough to cause her to pull on the reins of her horse and turn back to face the dogs, even though they were only a few hundred yards now from the shore. She charged back down the path, oblivious to the call of the young crow behind her.

Not one more. Her family had lost enough. They’d not get one more Stark casualty – not without her fighting to the death to stop it.

She tried to steady her arm as she rode, pointing her crossbow at the alpha female, who was circling Ghost, preparing to go in for the kill while the other dogs attempted to bait him into something foolish with antagonizing nips.

Just then a grey blur erupted from the trees, grabbing the alpha female by the back leg and wrenching her violently and brutally away from Ghost before tearing into her exposed underbelly.

Sansa stopped unable to breath.

It couldn’t be.

The grey direwolf looked so much like her Lady that for a second she thought it was some trick, some supernatural vindication sent from the Old Gods, endorsing the Starks at last by bringing back the first of her lost kin.

But then the wolf turned, facing Sansa briefly before lunging after another one of the dogs, and Sansa could see that the great wolf had darker markings on her face than her own sweet Lady had.

_Nymeria._

The other dogs were fleeing now, clearly out manned by the two direwolves, and Sansa made to turn back to the shore and heed the calls of her frantic escort when a rider rounded the bend.

It was Myranda. The girl’s eyes locked onto her and she spurred her exhausted mount into a gallop, charging Sansa, her hatred and jealously making her somehow oblivious to the two direwolves partially obstructing her path.

The wolves, already snarling at the rider with their great teeth bared could have taken her out easily, but Sansa didn’t hesitate. She raised the crossbow, aiming it strait at the bitch’s chest, and fired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Writing Sansa badass-ery is good fun. Also - hurray for direwolves! Now the only problem is how Ramsay will react... hmm... (as always, let me know what you think ;) )


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I got hit with some pretty serious writers block with this one, started writing not one but two other GoT Fanfics - I was just feeling very modern AU for some reason. Anyway - I hope you like it, as always comments are super super appreciated!

Reek

 

Reek had never seen his master this angry before. He’d watched from the courtyard when Jon had made his foolish deal for Sansa. Jon didn’t know the rules. No one escapes. So Reek knew what was coming when they let out the dogs, knew what would happen when they caught her. And he had wept at the thought, for Sansa who had managed to stay strong for so long, wept for Jon whose sacrifice would be for nothing now, and wept for himself for how everything around him had come to tragedy since he listened to his father and betrayed the Starks.

But then what was supposed to happen didn’t happen. His master, who had been forced by his father to wait before following Myranda and the dogs had left the castle twenty minutes after the hunt went out. He was gone for almost four hours, making Reek wonder if things were going differently than he expected. Sometimes his master preferred long hunts, but other times…

Then there had been shouting at the front gate and his master ordering the guard on duty to be taken flogged for his inattentiveness as the portcullis was raised.

Where were the dogs? They’d all been expecting him back but usually the dogs could be heard from a mile away. Reek didn’t understand, and even though he really didn’t want to see he found himself creeping into the middle of the keep to see his master returning.

Even in the darkness he could see that it was only Ramsay, flanked by the two men who’d ridden out with him when he left and a horse, being pulled along by one of the men with a dark shape drooped across its flanks.

Sansa. He thought despairingly. But where are the dogs? And where is Myranda?

Then his master had shouted for him, and he’d gone to him and realized what had happened. Sansa had escaped. The body strewn over the horses flank was Myranda, not Sansa. And something, or some things, had killed all but two of the dogs. The two who had run Ramsay killed himself in a rage, and now he had no dogs – and no kennel master’s daughter to help him train new ones.

Not that he cared about her. Reek knew better than to think that his master had feelings for any person in particular. No, this rage wasn’t about Myranda, or even really about Sansa. It was about losing – and losing to Jon Snow.

Ramsay burst into his father’s study Reek following behind trying not to be seen. He was afraid of Roose Bolton, but not half as much as he was afraid of his son, especially when Ramsay was in a mood like this.

“Where is he?” Ramsay said slamming his hands down on his father’s desk. Roose looked up at him coldly but didn’t respond.

“You cannot kill the Targaryen boy Ramsay, that would defeat the purpose of everything that we’ve done today. I am sorry if your pets killed your wife, but maybe you should’ve thought of that before you loosed the beasts—“

“Sansa escaped.”

“She what?!”

“She escaped. His planned worked farther, your precious Targaryen friend, he made an ass of you and a cuckold of me and now you’re about to make a king of him. It seems he’s had his way with us like a pair of tight-cunted whores, and now he’s probably upstairs in one of your finest rooms, getting drunk, likely off your favorite vintage.”

Roose’s jaw tightened. Reek knew the father was just as proud as the son – maybe more so even, now that he was Warden of the North. He also knew that Roose Bolton hated Jon Snow, hated him for the very real threat he posed to Roose's chances of keeping the North for himself.

“Are you worried now father? Worried that maybe even after your hospitality he might still chose to fuck you when his Auntie and Brother arrive? I bet you wish you had something to hold over him, some reason to make sure he thought twice before making a move against you…”

“What are you proposing? Out with it!” Roose snapped clearly angry. Reek knew his master had the older man then.

Ramsay smiled. “Let me talk to him,” he said returning to his sweet sing-songy voice. “Let me find out where he’s sent his sister Sansa… Or,” he said pausing as his eyes lit up with glee “Or where he’s hidden young Arya. Either one would make a nice insurance policy, don’t you agree father?”

“Yes. Fine, have you way with him, I know it’s what you do best. But Ramsay?”

“Yes father?”

“No Marks.”

“Of course not father.”

Roose Bolton nodded gesturing with his head towards the East Tower where they were housing Jon, and Ramsay flew out the door yelling “Come Reek!” as he bounded up the stairs.

Reek had no choice, so Reek followed.

 

Arya

 

Moving through the Dreadfort without being seen was not easy. She’d been successful so far, had only had to give someone the gift once – but there was no way she’d be able stay there unless she found a way to get near Jon and somehow managed to lay low until they could make an escape.

She’d been confident about it when she’d told Jon the plan, but with each passing minute her confidence ebbed. The problem wasn’t that she wasn’t sure if she could get them out. She could – she had more than enough training and force of will to do that – it was that she didn’t know how much _time_ they had. She saw the ravens go out to the Targaryen queen hours ago, and she had no way of knowing when the news would reach her. If they had to travel by normal modes she would have no reason for concern. But Arya had lived in the Free Cities and she knew as well as anyone in Essos – The Mother of Dragons and her nephew could fly. How long it would take them to cross the narrow sea on the back of dragons only the Old Gods knew.

So she had to be quick – and with that in mind she found herself here – scaling the walls to the east tower in the black of the night in hopes of coming upon Jon alone. Her forearms were already burning from the climb, but as she got closer and heard the sound of voices coming from the room he’d been put in she knew she had no choice but to climb up further and listen.

“I have to say Lord Commander, I’ve heard a lot about you, but one thing they don’t speak on enough is how very pretty you are.”

“Fuck off Bolton,” Jon replied hatred clear in his voice.

“No really – Reek back me up. Don’t you think he’s a pretty little bastard?”

“Ye-yes Milord.”

“I bet he was even prettier when you were growing up as boys together in Winterfell wasn’t he Reek? Did you ever play any games together Reek? Ever get to fuck those pouty little lips of him with your cock? You do remember when you had a cock, don’t you Reek?”

“Ye-yes master. I re-remember. N-no. We di-didn’t play those k-kind of games.”

“Pity, you missed your chance I’m afraid.”

 _He’s talking to Theon Greyjoy._ Arya realized with horror. She had heard rumors of what had happened to the Ironborn but it was a different thing entirely to hear them confirmed. Plus she never realized he’d still be here…

“It’s not just that you’re pretty, Lord Commander, it’s that you’re pretty like _her_ …”

“Fuck off, Bolton.”

“The dark hair on pale skin helps to be sure, but since I met your sister I’ve had a dozen girls who share your coloring, just for the sport of acting out what I am going to do to her when I find her. It’s not that hard to come by in the North, especially now that it’s Winter… No, what I haven’t been able to find, what’s been impossible to recreate really is those _eyes_.”

Arya heard the scrape of furniture and a grunt.

“Tsk. Tsk. So wild, is that what life at the wall makes you like? There’s no use in struggling against those bonds Snow, though you’re welcome to try. You can drag the whole bed across the room behind you if you’d like but it still won’t change the fact that someday _very soon_ , I will have your sister under me, crying out my name as she begs me for mercy.”

Silence followed and Arya could almost see Jon staring daggers at Ramsay Bolton, tied to the posts of a giant wooden bed.

“You see Snow, some people are discriminatory – they’ll only fuck a _girl_ who has something they fancy. I'm no where near that picky, am I Reek?"

“N-no, Milord.”

“No… yes I think if we shaved that beard of yours you’d do quite nicely as a stand in until I have your sister here with me. Reek! Be a good lad and give the Lord Commander a shave would you? Nice and close so he will look proper for his aunt and brother when they arrive. Don’t cut him though Reek or I’ll have to punish you."

“Y-yes, Milord.” Theon was crying now, and Arya heard the clunk of something metal hit the floor, and the sound of furniture drag as Jon began to struggle in earnest.

“Look Snow, I’m already half ready for you as it is. No I don’t think I’ll have any trouble doing my duties as I take you in the ass pretending it’s young Arya’s tight wet—“

She couldn’t listen to it any more. Before she could think, she’d leapt through the window and landed on the floor in the room, Needle already drawn, to see Ramsay, with his cock out stroking himself as he stood in front of Jon who was tied standing spread-eagled to the posters of a great bed, as Theon shaved his face with a shaky hand.

“Ramsay!” She cried, her voice full of wrath and hatred.

He turned to her, face erupting in a gleeful smile, and she knew she had to play it smart if she and Jon had any chance of getting out alive and unharmed. So, going against her entire nature, she used every bit of deceit the Faceless men had taught her, and force herself to stand, posted on one leg with her hip curving out invitingly as she took the thong out of her hair and let her curling locks fall around her shoulders.

“Why settle?”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm so sorry this took so long to get out - I got serious writer's block with this story and my mind kept coming up with other plot lines. Any way I hope you like it. Thanks for sticking it out!!

Arya

 

Ramsay’s face broke out in a grin, and he began to take a step towards her. She forced herself to stay still waiting for just the right moment, when he was just so far away that she could draw needle and catch him in the chest in the same stroke and then follow up with the knife up her sleeve without having to over extend herself and leave her front open for a counter attack. Just two steps more and she’d have him right where she…

But he was too clever for that, instead he’d taken out his blade and made to slash at Jon’s exposed torso – forcing her to close the distance between them hastily to black his blow, and then they were off. He was a good swordsmen, but she was better, a fact that became more and more obvious with each passing blow. She landed cuts on his thigh and shoulder, eventually scraping down his arm and leaving his forearm bloodied. He let out a hiss of breath at that but his eyes didn’t fill with the concern most men would show at knowing their opponent had just landed a significant blow. No, instead Ramsay’s eyes burned with a look of maniacal amusement, and his grin, if anything, widened.

“You’re good,” he said cheerfully, parrying her next attack and shoving back against her blow so that she had to skip lightly back onto the balls of her feet to keep her center of gravity.

“I had thought that it was only my drunkenness,” he said lunging at her with what could have been a death blow in a less skilled opponent, she just side stepped the attack easily. “But I was wrong, you really are that good.”

She let him talk, ignoring him and focusing instead on the ringing of the swords between them, she saw her in and landed another slicing blow on his collarbone before he fell back ,, knocking her blade away.

“If Stark girls are this good, it amazes me we were ever able to defeat your family.”

Her next lunge was more erratic after that. _Keep calm. Control the anger, don’t let him bait you._

“How did we defeat you Starks anyway?” he said, a mean smile spreading across his face.

Don’t take the bait. Even if he talks about his father betraying Robb and your mother, leave it.

“Oh I remember now…” he began, falling back two paces so there was space between them for the first time since they’d begun the fight.

“We cheated.”

And with that he threw his blade at her. She moved out of the way quickly, avoiding any serious harm, and the blade only managed to glance her right leg. She couldn’t understand it – now that left him with no sword, no means of defending himself except his long dagger, and left her with barely a scratch.

No, she couldn’t understand it – until she started to move.

The Mummer’s Freeze. She recognized the poison immediately as it began to snake through her body. Already her legs felts heavy and her arms tingled with the effort to stay en garde.

“See what I like about you so very much the first time we met, in addition to your breasts and the look of your thighs when you let your skirts fall to the ground, was the fact that _you cheated._ I love cheating – it’s so much more fun to play a game when only you know the rules, don’t you think?”

She was struggling to keep hold of her sword now and with one last jolt of energy she thrust, aiming straight for Ramsay’s heart, but she was too slow. The bastard batted away her blow with ease and the force of his parry was almost enough to knock the sword from her hand.

“Impressive,” he said, and there was a hint of grudging respect in his voice. “I’ve seen men twice your size drop to their knees after only thirty seconds of coming in contact with the Mummer’s Freeze. You must really want to kill me if you were able to keep fighting after almost a minute.”

She swayed dangerously on the spot, and he grinned.

“Here it comes. Do you know, sweetling, what the Mummer’s Freeze does? I bet you do, clever girl like yourself, but in case you don’t let me tell you. See that tingling you’re feeling, that means your body is slipping into paralysis. Don’t worry – you’ll be able to see, hear, and feel everything. You just won’t be able to move.”

Behind Ramsay, Jon began to struggle again against his bonds in earnest.

“Ah yes brother dearest. I suspect he’s not very happy right about now is he?”

“Let her go Ramsay or I swear to god I’ll kill you and your entire blood line.” Jon called from the bed.

“Tisk tisk. He’s not very friendly, that brother of yours. It seems like someone should teach him a lesson.”

She swayed again and the bastards hands came out to steady her, pulling her hips against his erection and crushing her there. She was repulsed but even more so by the fact that she couldn’t even lift her hands to push him away or curse him. All she could do was glare at him, and try to ignore the sounds of Jon, wrenching at his bindings to try to get free.

“Hmmm… see the problem with this is you’re not quite as much fun when you’re not fighting me. No, I think what I’ll do – I think I’ll have my way with your pretty older brother’s ass, and then, then when the poison starts to wear off, then you and I can play. How does that sound, hmm?”

He released her momentarily and came back a second later, dragging a chair behind him. He pushed her down into it unceremoniously, and spun her so that she was facing the bed, her eyes locked onto Jon’s. His were wild with fury and frustration and she could see the lines of blood from where he’d rubbed his wrists raw trying to get his bindings undone. Theon stood groveling in the corner of the room by the window – simultaneously trying not to look and unable to take his eyes off the horror that was about to unfold.

“I want you to watch.” Ramsay said to her gleefully in his singsong voice, taking hold of her head and forcing it upwards so that even if she looked down she wouldn’t be able to take her eyes off what was happening. She glared up at him and he smiled down at her, his hand still cupping her face.   His smile waivered momentarily and a dark look came into his eyes, and he moved around in front of her, coming between her and Jon, his waist level with her face, the bulge in his breeches less than a foot away.

“You are a pretty little thing aren’t you? I’ve been dreaming about fucking that mouth of yours while you watch me with those big grey eyes for weeks now.”

His hand went to his stays and Jon let out a strangled cry of fury from the bed when he realized what Ramsay was about to do.

“Yes, I’ve changed my mind. I can’t wait any longer to feel that sweet mouth on my cock. I’ll just let you get me good and wet for your brother and then I’ll—“

Whatever horrors he was planning on inflicting Arya will never know. At that moment his words were cut off and replaced with a sick gargling sound as blood showered over her. There was nothing she could do to stop it – it was in her eyes and mouth, making her gag despite the paralysis. She heard the sound of Ramsay’s body drop to the floor and through her blood clouded eyes she saw Theon – razor in hand, staring down at the body of the Bolton Bastard and trembling with shock.

“Theon! Cut me loose!” Jon called from the bed, and the Iron born jolted around jerkily, cutting the ties around Jon’s wrists and ankles with erratic strokes.

The second his bindings were cut Jon flew off the bed, making it to her in such a swift motion that she would have cried out in surprise if she could speak. Then she was in his arms, being huddled against his chest as he wiped the blood from her face and eyes. When the cloth was gone she was staring up at him, her grey eyes locked on his own, his face a wreck of raw emotion. She wished she could’ve closed her eyes – it killed her to see him like this, still breathing heavy with adrenalin and fear, the torture of helplessness still fresh enough to make him wide eyes and almost crazed looking.

“Gods Arya, how could you… what he could’ve done… what he almost did…” his voice was tight in a manner she’d never heard from him before, strained with emotions that she knew were weighing on him. Her eyes dropped to his lips and she strained internally against her paralysis, thinking how much she’d like to kiss him, to tell him that she was alright, that they were alright, and that what almost happened never needed to haunt either of them. He saw her eyes flick downwards, and when her eyes returned to his there was something else there as well, a raw hunger that he’d only let her see a few times now, but that she would remember for the rest of her days.

And then he was kissing her, his soft lips crushing against her lustful and hungry for her. She wished she could kiss him back, but then his lips were gone and his eyes had left hers and were fixed over her shoulder, guilt and wariness playing across his features.

 _Theon._ There was no way the Iron Born could’ve mistaken that kiss for brotherly affection. Not that they had time to worry about that anyway. Jon seemed to arrive at the same conclusion, and he straightened defiantly, almost daring their old companion to say something about what he had just seen. When Theon continued to say nothing Jon spoke.

“We need to get out of here. We need to get to the coast or at least to the Dread Water. Will you help us?”

The question hung in the air as she stared up at her brother, knowing what it cost him to ask Theon Greyjoy for help. She’d known Theon all her life, and he’d never been particularly kind to her but Jon – Jon and Theon had been play fellows and enemies since they were little more than babes. They’d always been competitors for Robb’s affections, and Theon had always taken every opportunity he could to remind Jon that as bad as being a hostage was, it was still better than being a bastard. She knew from the little Jon had said during their time together, that not going to join Robb’s cause while he had the chance was one of his greatest regrets, and she guessed that he – like her – blamed Theon above almost all others for the demise of their brother’s cause.

And then there was Bran and Rickon. Still to this day she’d never accepted it – never truly believed that Theon was capable of such treachery – never truly given up hope that the reports were wrong. But those were the idle hopes of a heartbroken sister, she knew.

No – Theon Greyjoy deserved to die a thousand deaths for the hurt he’d inflicted on her family. But instead of staying enemies to the last _he’d saved her_. That was as clear as day and that was making her already drugged head spin with confusion. And apparently for Jon that one god act, and the direness of their situation was enough of a reason to extend the olive branch. He was a better person than she could ever hope to be, but still she wasn’t sure if he was right to rely on Theon, recent act of heroism or not.

But then she heard him speak from behind her, and she knew their lives were in his hands now.

“Reek can get you to safety b-but you have to c-come quickly. Y-you cannot g-go to the sea though. The d-dragons, the dragons are coming from the sea. O-once the dragons c-come you cannot escape.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this story - I hit a massive writer's block but I've finally figured out how I'll be ending this story (and where I'll be beginning the sequel ;-) ). Please let me know what you think!

 

Aegon

 

Aegon Targaryen could not remember ever being so restless.  He’d flown far greater distances than the span of the Narrow Sea in the past – nearly twice that distance when he’d travelled from Mareen to Kos after receiving Rhegal from his Aunt – but this time ever beat of his dragon’s wings seemed to come a century apart.

In less than an hour, he would meet his brother.  He had been chomping at the bit to visit the Lord Commander since Missandei had discovered a missive describing his birth in Ser Barristan’s effects.  Daenerys had called for patience saying that going to the Wall before they came to Westeros generally would be a mistake.  She had reasoned that the Night’s Watch was likely all loyal to Stannis now, due to the assistance he had rendered them, and that this Jon Snow may well not believe them.  Once they took Westeros, she reasoned, then they could go to him.  She had no desire to quarrel with the Black Brothers unnecessarily, and besides, from every report they’d received his leadership on the Wall was a vital necessity with winter gathering. 

But then the missive from the Bolton’s had come – proclaiming that they had the Lord Commander in their keeping and were willing to talk terms with the Targaryens in exchange for Jon Snow’s safe keeping, _and_ Daenerys had been on a week-long trip to negotiate a treaty with the Dornishmen. 

She’d understand that he had to act, when she returned he told himself for the hundredth time.  After all, she couldn’t expect him to leave his only living brother in the hands of the Boltons, even if that brother was currently unaware of their blood relation. 

He was giddy with anticipation as the Westerosi shoreline came into view, so distracted by his excitement that he forgot to check for vessels before dipping below the cloud cover.  He was positive one ship anchored at the mouth of the Blackwater had seen him, and he admonished himself inwardly for his lapse, still there was nothing for it now.  No amount of care would stop the tale of his visit to the Dreadfort from spreading around the Seven Kingdoms, one ship could hardly make a difference.  He sent another silent prayer up to the Seven that his aunt would understand the necessity of his unilateral rescue of their kinsmen, as he swooped low, following the river until, at long last, the looming grey outline of the Dreadfort came into view in the fading light of the early evening.

He was here.

Jon

 

Jon’s heart beat wildly as Theon Greyjoy – the enemy of his childhood and the murderer of his brothers – lowered him and his sister slowly from the window of Ramsay Bolton’s tower room.  He was completely at the Ironborn’s mercy, with both of his arms wrapped tightly around Arya’s disturbingly lifeless form, the effects of Ramsey Bolton’s Mummer’s Freeze poison still keeping her trapped in temporary paralysis. Slowly, moving barely a foot at a time, Greyjoy lowered them down the side of the tower.  Jon’s chest clenched with tension at every sound, even the squawking of a dozen birds taking flight in the distance sent a wave of chills up his spine.  He knew it was probably his own utterly helpless position, but he felt as if the whole world was holding its breath in silent anticipation waiting for _something_ to break the unnatural peace.

And then he heard the banging knock – ringing out through the evening air and reverberating down to him from the open window above.  Abruptly, the lowering stopped, as if Theon had frozen in horror at the sound.

“Milord Ramsay, sir? Y-your father says to bring the L-lord Commander to his antechamber ser.” 

The wavering voice of the castle guard showed clearly that the man dreaded bringing such a message to Ramsay Bolton, clearly fearing that he would be the next victim of the Bastard’s bloodlust for daring to disturb him in the midst of torturing Jon.

The silence that followed was deafening to Jon.  He hugged Arya’s lifeless form tighter as he glanced down.  A full twenty feet separated his dangling legs from the ground.  It was a fall they’d likely both survive, but the chances of him being able to get up, sling Arya over his back, and run away after that were slim to none.

 _Theon, please_. He found himself willing the Iron Born to act with all his might.

“Th-the Lord Ramsay i-is sleeping,” Theon’s terrified voice came echoing out of the window.  “He, he s-said he is n-not to be disturbed.”

Jon exhaled in relief, as the rope began to lower again, albeit at an even slower pace than before. 

“You listen here you little worm,” the guard’s angry voice said, coming out stronger now that it was clear he was addressing Theon rather than Ramsay, “you tell your precious master that a dragon’s been spotted on the horizon and his father, the Warden of the North demands that his prisoner be brought to him at once!”

At that they dropped a full two feet.  The banging on the door recommenced, louder this time but Theon did not respond, instead throwing all his efforts into lowering Jon and Arya haphazardly down the remaining twenty feet.

“Were my instructions not clear?! I said the Lord Commander was to be brought to my chambers at once!” Roose Bolton’s arngey voice echoed out into the night.

“I-its Reek Milord, he says Ramsay’s sleeping, says he’s not to be disturbed!”

Jon could almost feel Theon’s hands trembling as the rope continued to lower.

“Ramsay! I don’t give a damn what state your in – I don’t give a damn if you’re buggering the Blasted Crow right now, get your arse out here and drag that Black Bastard along with you! The dragon is minutes away and I don’t want him sneaking him out of the fucking window!”

The banging grew louder.

“Oh for the sake of the Seven – break down the fucking door!”

_Just ten more feet. Theon, please just ten more feet._

It was too late.  Just as Jon heard the sound of heavy axes begin to thud into the wooden chamber door the sunset was suddenly blotted out by the enormous shape of a bottle green dragon.  Atop the dragon sat a young man, with a lanky, athletic build, tan skin and a shock of jet blue hair. The eyes of the rider and the dragon were both fixed unwaveringly, on him.

_Wham!_

 His feet his the ground heavily, just as he heard the door above splinter apart.

 _Boom!_ The dragon landed with a thud in front of him its yellow eyes still locked unblinkingly on Jon.  He swung Arya’s paralyzed body onto his shoulder, drew his dagger with his right hand, and turned to face the boy.  To his surprise the dragon rider was looking at him with a look of mingled hopefulness and awe on his face.

“RAMSAY!!!”

Roose Bolton’s bellow of rage came from out the window, just as Theon Greyjoy’s thin frame came hurling into view, shimming down the rope as fast as it could go.  Had he had the time to think Jon would have been shocked to hear the anguish in the Warden of the North’s voice.  Rumors of Roose Bolton’s distaste for his son had spread throughout the North, and yet the devastation in his cry was unmistakable.  Roose Bolton was near mad with greif.

“GET THEM! KILL THEM ALL!! MY SON – THEY’VE KILLED MY SON!”

The shouts of men echoed from around the yard.  There was nothing else for it.  Jon cut himself free from the rope, praying that Theon would make it down in time and made straight for the dragon’s flank, holding the creature’s gaze, until he reached the rider in the saddle.

“Jon Snow,” the man breathed – sounding younger than the twenty-two years Jon knew he must be, as if he’d somehow managed to live a life free of the treachery and pain that had plagued the realm these past six years.  

“Take her. Take her with you and get away from here.”

“I came for you, brother.  I cannot take you both!”

The young man’s eyes were troubled.  Behind him Roose Bolton let out another howl of rage.  Jon turned, just in time to see Theon Greyjoy falling, falling…

“Take her to the ship that’s anchored at the Mouth of the Dreadwater.  Take her there, and after that I will come with you, wherever you like.”  

The rider’s purple eyes widened in surprise, but Jon didn’t hesitate – he swung Arya down, met her wide panicked eyes with his, kissed her briefly on the forehead and passed her to the man who must be his only true brother before taking off into the trees at a run.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the super long hiatus, I hope you all enjoy! Comments are always very much appreciated!!

Aegon

 

He was nearly a hundred feet in the air before he even glanced down at the girl his brother had lain across his lap.  She was awake, he knew, only temporarily paralyzed, although from the way her spine had sagged when he’d pulled her onto his dragon she’d seemed as lifeless as a corpse.  His eyes flicked down to her now, not expecting anything to dispel him of his pessimistic assessment of her condition when he saw her eyes for the first time.

Those eyes.  They did more than affirm her survival; they _burned_ with a passion and an intelligence that he would scarcely have thought possible under the circumstances.  He would have expected them to be wide with fear, or else filled with panicked tears as this girl, whoever she was, realized that she was in the clutches of an unknown man on the back of a dragon whose existence she probably had not believed in until a few moments ago.  But fear was the last thing he saw as he gazed into her eyes.  Instead they seemed to blaze with accusation and annoyance, as if he’d done something highly offensive by taking her from his brother and flying her out of the Dreadfort.  

“Don’t worry madam.  I will take you straight to the ship my brother referenced.  You have nothing to fear, all will be well.  You are safe with me.” He was pleased that he managed to maintain a solemn and formal tone as he spoke to her, despite the fact that with each pump of his dragon’s wings they rose and fell quite significantly, causing the pits of their stomach to lurch every minute or so.  The woman was unimpressed however, and seemed almost to roll her eyes at him before glaring off in the direction they were headed.

Who was this girl?

Aegon wondered if she were his brother’s lover.  As soon as he the thought sprang into his mind he realized that he hoped she wasn’t. He found that he was desperately curious to know more about her.  

_Focus._   He admonished himself.  _You are here for your brother.  It’s his safety you should be looking out for, not some girl’s no matter what he asked of you._

His cheeks burned at the thought of having to tell Daenerys that his brother had been killed fleeing the Bolton’s on foot while he had ridden off with some maiden into the sunset.  She might not even be of noble blood.  Seven hells, given that his brother was the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, she might not even be from Westeros.  He stole another look down at her silver eyes which were glaring back at him defiantly once more.

No, it wouldn’t be such a stretch to imagine that she was one of the Free Folk.  She certainly would fit with the tales of their bravery that he’d heard, at any rate.  And those eyes… well ‘wild’ certainly would be an apt way to describe them.

But she wasn’t who he’d come for, and so as he saw the outline of the ship appear through the clouds he made himself urge Rhegal down to ground.  As they began to descend her eyes widened and she made an attempt to raise her head, struggling against the poison.  Still, she didn’t look afraid as much as she seemed frustrated, and he found his heart pinching with sympathy.  Without thinking, he swept her up into his arms slightly, tucking his arm underneath her head for support and pulling her against his chest, leaving only one hand on Rhegal’s back to steer the descent.  Not that he had much control in the matter, but it had always seemed important before.  

“It’s alright,” he said, looking down into her eyes, and finding to his surprise that his voice came out gentle and familiar.  “We are where my brother wanted you to be brought.  The ship is still here. You’ll be safe now.”

“ARYA!” 

Aegon looked up to see a beautiful woman with close cropped copper hair running towards them at full tilt, with a teen squire following in her wake.  Although most of the tales had focused on her flowing locks Aegon knew that this woman could be no one other than Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister’s estranged wife and the recently widowed Lady Bolton.  Which must mean that the girl in his arms…

He’d been looking up at the approaching woman so he hadn’t realized she’d moved until a small hand pressed against his chest.  It was a weak gesture, meant only to get his attention and made near impossible by the poison still weighing down the girl’s limbs, but somehow the light pressure of her hand against his chest sent jolts of electricity through his entire being.  He looked down at her again to see her face screwed up with concentration and intensity, as she slowly willed her jaw into motion.

“Find. Him… Save. Jon…” she ground out, as beads of sweat began to form on her brows.

 “Gods say she’s not dead!” Sansa was almost upon them now and rushed to her sisters side, all but ignoring the dragon as she charged towards them.  Rheal let out a hiss of protest and Aegon, who had been staring down at Arya as she attempted to speak shook himself and came back to the present.  

“Rhegal, down.  She’s alive.  Just temporarily paralyzed.  It’s alright.  She’s alright.”

He slid from Rhegal’s back with as much grace as he could manage, holding Arya fast in his arms.  Aegon walked slowly over to Sansa and the squire who’d caught up to her (though he was decidedly more wary of Rhegal) with Arya in his arms.  He peered at the squire skeptically, not entirely convinced that the young boy could manage bringing the injured woman in his arms up to ship despite her diminutive size.  He was just about to declare that he would carry her aboard when her weak voice sounded once more.

“Please… Jon…”

He looked down into her eyes and saw for the first time, a shadow of fear there. 

“Squire!” He barked, and the young man jolted forward, coming to stand right before him.  “Take the lady aboard.  See that she’s tended for. I will be back to make sure.”  With these last words he fixed the squire with a hard look, attempting to infuse his words with as sincere a promise of retribution as possible.  Most would quail under the look Aegon fixed him with but the Squire appeared to be made of sterner stuff because he nodded and gave him a deferential "yes, milord," before reaching to take Arya from him.  Seeing that there was nothing more that he could justify doing without seeming to break utterly from decorum, Aegon reluctantly passed Arya's small figure over to the squire.  The boy managed alright despite his youth, and after giving Arya's limp body one last look Aegon inclined his head towards the Lady Sansa in quick acknowledgement, and turned on his heel to return to Rhegal’s back and his task of finding his brother.  It was, after all, the only reason he had any business being here at all.

And yet as he and Rhegal launched themselves back into the air, Aegon realized that for the first time in his life he could understand how his father sacrificed everything for the love of a Stark girl.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do to see love fill those silver eyes.


End file.
